


Turning for Home

by lori (zakhad)



Series: Captain and Counselor [24]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 21:29:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 46,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zakhad/pseuds/lori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking some time off, everyone indulges in some personal drama. Natalia deals with her mother's fear, Tom and Beverly deal with Tom's siblings and their cluelessness, and meanwhile over in chez Picard, Jean-Luc only has his memories of the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

And I can tell by the way you're talking  
That the past isn't letting you go  
But there's only so long you can take it all on  
And then the wrong's gotta be on its own  
And when you're ready to leave it behind you  
You'll look back, and all that you'll see  
Is the wreckage and rust that you left in the dust  
On your way to the jubilee

And I can tell by the way you're listening  
That you're still expecting to hear  
Your name being called like a summons to all  
Who have failed to account for their doubts and their fears  
They can't add up to much without you  
And so if it were just up to me  
I'd take hold of your hand, saying come hear the band  
Play your song at the jubilee

And I can tell by the way you're searching  
For something you can't even name  
That you haven't been able to come to the table  
Simply glad that you came  
And when you feel like this try to imagine  
That we're all like frail boats on the sea  
Just scanning the night for that great guiding light  
Announcing the jubilee

And I can tell by the way you're standing  
With your eyes filling with tears  
That it's habit alone keeps you turning for home  
Even though your home is right here  
Where the people who love you are gathered  
Under the wise wishing tree  
May we all be considered then straight on delivered  
Down to the jubilee

'Cause the people who love you are waiting  
And they'll wait just as long as need be  
When we look back and say those were halcyon days  
We're talking 'bout jubilee

~~~ Mary Chapin Carpenter

~^~^~^~^~^~

"I'm really flattered," Beverly said, smiling, glowing, looking across the table with the light of the candles flickering in the depths of her blue eyes.

Tom smiled back, a little puzzled by the sudden declaration, and pondered the menu. "The universal translator isn't helping me interpret that."

"Paris, when you could be back on the ship. When we're about to head out for a shakedown cruise."

"Isn't like Data can't handle the details himself. Besides, you work hard, I work hard, and you deserve an outing. We can manage a night away."

"A whole night? I thought it was just dinner. Now I really *am* flattered!" She glanced over the railing at the city lights. The night breeze ruffled her hair, which gleamed copper in the dim lighting of the boat. "Dinner on the Seine -- you're better than I thought at romance, Tom. You've been holding out on me."

"Now if only I could just understand the menu."

She laughed. "All I know is pommes are apples and canard is duck. I'm going to go for Magret de Canard aux Épices, which I just mispronounced terribly, but I can point. Only the French would be so arrogant as to not provide translations of menus."

"Careful how loud you say that -- offend the waiter and he'll probably bring us snails regardless of what we point at." Tom contemplated the menu a moment longer, decided at random, and set it aside, reaching for his water glass.

"Now that you mention it -- I think I just figured out why Jean-Luc gets along with Klingons so well. Gagh, snails -- it's all the same to me. Slimy."

"Though I think they cook the snails, don't they? In any case, enjoy while you can, for tomorrow we go to Oregon, which is a far cry from the Mediterranean, believe me. Amazing the difference a few degrees of latitude can make."

"So tonight *and* tomorrow?" Her delight increased, the glow in her eyes trebled -- or was that just a trick of soft lighting? She put down her menu, losing a little of it upon further contemplation. "So is Catriona going to be there tomorrow?"

"Sure is. I called her when *Phoenix* docked. Also made the official announcement of my new posting and invited the family along to the commission ceremony, though it remains to be seen if anyone will show up. Something wrong?"

"Thinking about Cat makes me think of. . . other things. So does the dinner invitation from Melissa Keel -- Greenman, I mean. It's going to be interesting, I think she's also invited Jean-Luc, as well as a few other old friends and acquaintances."

Tom put down his water and smoothed his napkin over his thighs. "Look, you start getting lost in more sad memories I'm going to toss you over the side."

She sniffed. "You just want to see me with this dress soaked and clinging."

"Fine. Just cut away the veneer of civilization and lay bare the savage brute. As long as it doesn't remind you of some sordid part of your history. By the way, you look damned good tonight."

"Thank you. Damned sweet of you to notice."

"Sorry. I'm not exactly a poet, but you knew that."

"That's okay. You're eloquent enough in other ways."

He supposed that it might be obvious to an onlooker that they were too wrapped up in each other's eyes to notice anything short of an explosion; it would explain the hand that fell on his shoulder without warning. He looked up at a familiar smiling face.

"Hello, Jean-Luc -- nice to see you. What the hell are you doing here?"

"Eating dinner, when I'm not pestering you. I see you found Bateaux Parisiens. Beautiful evening for it, isn't it?"

"How's the honeymoon going?" Beverly asked.

"Leisurely and restful. Which is precisely what we both needed, after all the ups and downs of the last couple of months. Stealing my first officer like that caused chaos, I hope you know." Jean-Luc leaned against the railing, very relaxed indeed; decked out in civvies, looking like a native. Which he was, Tom realized. The dark shirt he wore hung in loose folds, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and he wore tan pants that reminded Tom of riding breeches. They could be, all things considered.

"Wish I could say I was sorry, but Data's a good officer. I don't think you'll suffer much. Data said Deanna's ready for it."

The fond smile said it all. Picard wasn't on duty, hadn't been for a couple of weeks, and though he'd probably thought of his ship often enough, he'd unwound enough to let affection be his first reaction. "She's got the crew well in hand. If I could have stopped calling her Data sooner, she'd probably have settled in quicker. There's still a little uneasiness, but she'll get better."

"She's got a tough act to follow. I hope you don't think she's going to answer all those technical questions in milliseconds," Beverly said.

"I'll adjust. I have to, or I'll be sleeping on the couch."

Exchanging glances with Tom, Beverly shook her head. "Thought you didn't mix business and personal that way."

"We don't. I'm kidding. I can do that, when I'm on leave and feeling far removed from it."

"Maybe you could do me a favor and translate the menu, as long as you're here?" Tom asked.

Jean-Luc laughed. "M'sieur forgot his translator? The duck is very good. So is the fish."

"We've figured out what the duck is. Which one's fish?"

"Morue braisée. Braised cod."

"I should've learned more languages. Only took one other Terran language, and forgot most of it."

"Parlate italiano?"

Tom blinked up at him. "What?"

"Guess not. I asked if you speak Italian. Not that I do, really, but one picks up a little of everything while hopping shuttles and light rail around Europe."

"How's Dee?" Beverly asked softly. She meant how was she, after the miscarriage nearly three months before, of course.

Jean-Luc always softened when someone asked. He brushed his nose with a thumb as if swiping away an insect. "You don't have to ask every time you see me, Beverly. She's been fine for weeks."

"How are you?"

It brought Jean-Luc's head up slightly. Tom felt an outsider in moments like this -- the ties binding the group of friends from the 1701-D were stronger than he'd seen between other officers. As complicated as the network of relationships in their different phases had gotten, none of them seemed willing to let the emotional bonds unravel. Change, yes, but not break.

"I'm better. Though we're supposed to go to Labarre, and I'm not looking forward to that. The last time I was there was to see to some of the vineyard business, after that last confrontation with the Borg."

Beverly tilted her head, glanced at Tom -- at least she included him that much. "The miscarriage hit you harder, didn't it, Jean-Luc? You haven't said two words about it. Deanna mentions it as though she's accepted it as just another sad page of the past, but you mention it without emotion. Which usually means you're not -- "

"I married a psychologist. I don't need your armchair analysis," Jean-Luc exclaimed, then caught himself and dropped his voice to softer tones. "Sorry. Yes, it did. But that's got nothing to do with my difficulty at the chateau -- it's just full of ghosts. Not that I'd be able to avoid them, Dee's good at dragging me headlong into things I shouldn't avoid."

"And Beverly's being too melancholy herself -- now she's yanked you into it."

"It's home, Tom, that's all. Earth. One of the reasons I don't come back that often. If Dee didn't want to acquaint herself with my culture we'd be elsewhere, believe me. I don't know why Beverly's melancholy, though, she's dressed to kill and sitting on a boat on the Seine under the stars about to sample fine French cuisine -- which reminds me, I left a Betazoid in a short dress on the bow under the scrutiny of a handful of lieutenants on leave. Enjoy your evening -- if you have time tomorrow, feel free to stop in at the chateau. It's easy enough to find, just ask anyone in Labarre. Just don't mention I'm home -- if anyone asks why you're going out there, tell them you're buying wine. The last thing I want is everyone in the village traipsing out to visit before Madame even knows where the cups and glasses are." He cuffed Tom's shoulder and headed around the cabin, sidling past a waiter.

The waiter, as it turned out, was there for them. He took the order, replied in heavily-accented Standard, recommended wine, and left them to get their appetizer.

"Okay, out with it, my melancholy baby. What's Catriona reminding you of?"

Beverly pursed her lips and looked out at the reflection of lights on the water. "I can't help it. Thinking back that far always makes me remember Jack, and his family, and the Keels. And how deplorably deficient I've been in corresponding with them over the years. Promises made and not kept, and friends who've been lost in the line of duty. The usual."

"I can understand that. I've been lucky that my family hasn't followed my example, I guess. It means I have plenty of affectionate hugging when I get back to Earth." He fished the long flat box out of his pocket and slid it across the white table cloth. "Hey."

When she turned to look at him and followed his gaze to the box, she snatched it up, beaming, completely distracted. "Tom! What's the occasion?"

"Just the first real leave I've had with you. Maybe it's only four days, but it's not on a starbase and it's not on a ship, and that's something to celebrate."

"Four days! Not just tonight and tomorrow? Can you afford to do that?"

He let his eyes trace the neckline of the pale cream dress -- it followed the contours of the tops of her breasts. "Do I care?" he whispered, looking in her eyes again, his voice barely audible over the gentle lap of water against the side of the boat.

The stars in her eyes were worth the cynicism and disbelief he'd endured from his peers to get the leave. She opened the box, paused, put on the bracelet, and sat looking at it. "It's beautiful. Thank you."

Tom sat up straighter, resettled in his chair, and reached across the table. She put her hand in his, her fingers appearing more delicate than they were by comparison. Pressing them into his palm, he turned her hand, catching what little light there was in the diamonds and sapphires.

Dinner came shortly, as they talked of the sights they'd seen before sundown and what they would do in Oregon, when they finally got together with his sisters and their families. The boat drifted on, the stars shone bright in the moonless, cloudless night, and the few other diners across the deck paid them no attention. At least the melancholy had fled, leaving her in a peaceful, thoughtful mood.

The boat docked as they finished dessert, and they left the table, heading for the bow to disembark with the other passengers. As they stepped off the gangplank, the wind caught Beverly's full skirt and flung it high around her thighs. Whistles and catcalls came from a group of young men standing on a grassy verge, probably the lieutenants Picard had mentioned.

"As you were!" he snapped. Every one of them froze, one even came to attention, and Tom put a hand to Beverly's back and guided her right, down a sidewalk toward the Eiffel Tower, glowing in the night from a network of lights in the infrastructure. When his gaze finally turned the direction they were walking, he found that they were following Jean-Luc and Deanna. The former glanced over his shoulder, and a quiet chuckle drifted back.

Upon reaching the tower plaza, the couple hesitated at the top of the broad steps to wait for Tom and Beverly to catch up. "Hi, Bev," Deanna said, smiling. In the light of the lamp they'd waited under, she looked breathtaking. The dress, like Jean-Luc's shirt, was midnight blue; the short skirt fluttered around her thighs and the bodice clung to her like a second skin. Other than the combs holding her hair back from her face, her dark curls ran riot over her bare shoulders. A glittering silver pendant hung against her pale chest, dangling a couple inches above her cleavage.

"Hi, Dee. Nice earrings." Beverly sounded like she was smiling.

Tom hadn't even noticed the earrings -- the difference between men and women, he thought, suppressing amusement. Diamond pendants swung from Deanna's earlobes, glittering in the low light.

"We were going to get a latte in the restaurant in the tower, before heading to Labarre," Jean-Luc said. "Would you like to join us?"

Beverly glanced at Tom. He smiled. "I suppose we're too late to go up the tower?"

"We tried a little earlier, but there's some sort of repair work being done -- they closed it down this afternoon." Deanna stepped toward her husband -- they stood slightly apart, not touching -- and the heel of her shoe sank in a crack in the pavement. Jean-Luc's hand went out automatically to steady her.

"Want some coffee, Verly?" Tom asked.

"Sure. Why not?"

They followed their friends across the pavement slowly. Deanna craned her neck, looking up at the sky. "I don't see it."

"Up there." Jean-Luc pointed. "Those stars, the brightest ones, see? Cygnus."

"That's the swan? Where's the fish?"

"At the moment, not visible. Wrong time of year. Pisces comes out late, and in a different part of the sky."

"How sad for them to be that far apart." Deanna took his hand and sidled closer. "The breeze is cool."

"You're always cold. I'm beginning to think you insist on going out without a jacket just to get me to put my arm around you," he replied as he did so.

"It always works, doesn't it?"

Tom shared an amused look with Beverly and followed the other two into the lift to the restaurant on the first floor of the tower.

They took a booth near a window overlooking the river. After a brief conference over preferences, Jean-Luc whipped out rapid instructions in French to the girl taking their order, who entered it on her padd and left them alone. Deanna and Beverly both looked through the clear ceiling up at the lights of the tower.

"We can come back, you know," Jean-Luc said, touching Deanna's shoulder then resting his hand on the back of her chair. "We have a week left."

"It's not what I imagined," she said. Her expression as she looked at her husband softened. The wedding may have been weeks before, but this was definitely a honeymoon for them.

Tom wondered if her becoming first officer would change things between them. It was a different sort of professional relationship, less relaxed than the one between captain and counselor, more likely to cause dilemmas between duty and personal preferences. But asking questions about such things only got irritated glares from them nowadays, so Tom said nothing. He smiled at the waitress as she delivered their coffee and took up the ceramic mug to sample his.

"So you're going to the chateau tonight?" Beverly asked casually. "I'll bet it'll be peaceful there, in the middle of the French countryside." Her smile softened as Tom brushed his hand against her leg under the table, then tightened as he slid a finger up her skirt. She grabbed his wrist, straightened her skirt, and placed his hand firmly on her thigh, pinning it there.

"I've invited them down tomorrow, if they want to come," Jean-Luc said, turning to his wife. Deanna smiled at that, glanced from Beverly to Tom, and propped her chin in her hand.

"Interesting."

"Stop analyzing me, already."

"I just said it was interesting, Jean-Fish. I wasn't analyzing you. You're analyzing yourself, I suspect -- trying to stay a step ahead of me. All I have to do is say a single word, and you pull up a couch and tell me exactly what you're feeling."

He raised eyebrows at her, tolerantly amused, and sipped his latte. "All that training you've done paid off, eh?"

"I like this chocolate." Deanna sipped more, and came up with a chocolate mustache and a smile. "You enjoyed dinner? What did you think, Tom? Jean-Luc said you'd asked him where to take her."

Tom rolled his eyes and held up his hands helplessly. "Gee, thanks, there goes the good impression."

But Beverly was laughing. "I figured as much when Jean-Luc showed up. How likely is it that he'd wind up on the same boat?"

"Actually, that was more chance than you think -- we were supposed to do it last night, but stayed an extra day in Lourdes. Are you staying in Paris tonight?" Deanna asked.

"We were planning on it, yes." Tom put down his cup.

"It was a little surprising seeing you here, considering you're about to take a new ship out of spacedock. How did you manage that?" Jean-Luc asked.

"Arm-twisting, headlocks, and outright begging. Except Data, who volunteered to work round the clock if he had to. Nice that he likes Beverly that much."

"I think you'll like Data, even if he gets a little too carried away sometimes."

Deanna sighed. "Jean-Luc misses him. I'd take it personally, except I miss him too, for almost the same reasons."

"How's the transition going?" Beverly asked. "I've made myself right to home. Nice being in a Sovereign-class sickbay again. Having new faces feels like a fresh start, and this time I got to pick my staff."

Deanna smirked at her captain. "I've made a bunch of buttons to wear until we get through the transitional period. One says, 'I'm not an android,' for when he asks me impossible questions he should ask the computer. Another says 'I'm not Data' for when he slips and calls me Data. And the third one says 'I'm not the counselor' for when he tries that, and for when he really gets his socks in a knot, I have one that says 'that isn't my name.' Because he starts in with 'whoever the bloody hell you are' and that won't fit on a button very well."

"What happened to 'number one'?" Beverly asked, highly amused by this.

"That reminds me too much of Will. He never got into the habit with Data, he always called him by name."

Tom noticed Beverly's mirth dwindled significantly at that, probably at the mention of Will Riker, and mentally crossed his fingers that this wouldn't turn into a serious conversation. Again. Something he'd not been made privy to had been transpiring between the friends via subspace, and it had something to do with Will.

"Commander doesn't work?" he asked.

"It works, when I can remember not to tack on a 'Data' at the end. We should have practiced more. It's just that I'm accustomed to directing a particular type of order at specific people -- I keep turning to her when I should turn to Davidson. At least both of them have a good sense of humor about it. Davidson even suggested changing his name to Troi." Jean-Luc touched Deanna's shoulder again -- brushed his thumb across it. He'd relaxed to a degree Tom hadn't seen him exhibit before. There'd always been a definite vibe between the couple, but physical contact in public had been nil. Under more private circumstances they might apply a hand to shoulder or back, or she might lean her head on his shoulder -- things any other couple might do. But something about that stroke of the thumb said intimacy.

"You'll get used to it. As long as you don't expect me to calculate things at warp ten, we'll be fine." Deanna sighed as she mournfully contemplated her empty cup. "We should be going, Jean-Fish. If Marie is waiting for us, we should meet her sometime before midnight, you think?"

"Marie?" Tom asked.

"My sister-in-law," Jean-Luc said. "At least until Robert died she was. We keep in touch. She's kept up the house for me. I told her she could live there, but she moved to her sister's. Too many ghosts for her at Chateau Picard. Technically the place is as much hers as mine, but she insists she's only holding part ownership to be able to maintain it, otherwise she'd hand it over to me completely."

"I'll bet she's excited you've gotten married."

Jean-Luc looked at Beverly, then collected himself and pushed out his chair. "She's waiting, one way or the other, and Dee's right, we should go. Hope you enjoy your time in Paris. Maybe we'll see you in the morning, for brunch?"

"We'll see. Good night." Beverly watched the two, exchanging smiles with them as they left, and looked at Tom. "That was interesting, wasn't it?"

"He didn't want to go the chateau."

"Well, no. He doesn't want to be there alone, either."

"What about Deanna?"

"It's different with a spouse. There comes a point that you're so familiar with each other, you're like an extension of the other person. I think they reached that point before they got married, actually." Beverly eyed him. "You like Jean-Luc, don't you?"

"Is that surprising? He's mostly likable, though difficult to get to know beyond the realm of Starfleet."

"I don't know if it should surprise me or not. You're still something of an enigma to me, in a few respects. So where are we staying?"

"It's a small hotel called Les Jardins d'Eiffel, right down at the base of the tower. Just a short walk. Are you saying you want to call it a night already?"

"Well. . . no. Just that I'd like to spend the rest of it in our room."

He met her gaze, suddenly uncomfortable in the little bistro chair. The waitress came over, and Tom realized he'd just been left with the bill. He took care of it and snorted as they rose from their seats. "He owes me brunch -- asks us to coffee and leaves me to pay for it."

"And you want to see the infamous chateau real and in person."

"That, too."

"And you feel sympathy for his plight facing his personal ghosts."

"Come on, Counselor Crusher, let's go find ourselves a private place to stop talking about this."

~^~^~^~^~^~

The transporter put them on the lawn. Jean-Luc felt a mild, passing guilt at cheating and using the *Enterprise* transporters for personal business, but it was late, and Deanna was beginning to wilt.

"It's different," Deanna said.

Picking up their bags, Jean-Luc asked, "What do you mean?"

"Than the holodeck. Real. Something about the breeze and the sound of it in the leaves, and the smells. The air. It's real when we're on the holodeck, but more real here."

"Come along, Deebird. Almost home."

The lights from the windows spilled across the grass. Deanna's heels sank in the turf; he kept an arm around her. She shot him one of her affectionate, picture-taking glances -- she'd spent the whole week and a half doing this, looking at him, leaning against him, as if desperately trying to soak in as much of the trip as possible. They'd toured France, going wherever they pleased on a whim, making the chateau their final and longest stop.

The sounds of their shoes on the porch brought the door open, and there was Marie, beaming at them, hand in her hair self-consciously. "Jean-Luc! I was beginning to worry you weren't coming."

"Sorry we're late. We ran into some friends in Paris. You look well." They exchanged fond kisses on the cheek, and she took the bags from him with a firm tug. "This is Deanna, as I'm sure you'll remember."

Marie turned a radiant smile on her. "I do. It's so good to meet you in person. I've enjoyed our little subspace chats immensely."

They exchanged a fond embrace and went inside. Marie gave them a short tour, leaving their bags in the main bedroom, showing them the replicator she'd had installed, showing Jean-Luc where the latest vineyard business correspondence was kept and informing him that she'd arranged to have some horses in the stable for them.

"Horses," Deanna echoed.

"Yes, from the stable on the other side of the village. They raise warmbloods. And I'm afraid, Jean-Luc, that some people already know you're here. I know you wanted privacy."

"I'm not a complete hermit, Marie. I'll cope. And I have Deanna here to defend me. Or them, as needed."

"They're just curious. Not every native son goes off to such achievements, you know. I told them to postpone the parade and the opening of the Jean-Luc Picard Museum. The mayor promised that we'd only unveil the twenty-foot bronze statue of you after you left."

Jean-Luc took in Marie's smile and laughed. "You're teasing me, aren't you?"

"Yes, cher, I am. I don't think anyone will bother you, even if you appear in the village. I did spread the word that you're on a honeymoon and not to be bothered if you're seen. As much of a busybody as that makes me sound, I did want your visit to be a relaxing one. You sounded tired in your last communique." A shadow of grief fell across her face, then was gone. She met Deanna's gaze as they stood there in the hall, and for a moment the two seemed to commiserate -- they probably were. Losing a child was probably the one thing they had in common, and he was certain that was on their minds, and that they'd mentioned it to one another already in communiques.

"I hate to sound rude, Marie, but it's late and you look as tired as Dee. I hope you'll come back for dinner tomorrow night."

Marie turned a happy smile on him. "Jean-Luc, I'll have you know I'm cooking you dinner tomorrow night -- of course I'll be here. You enjoy yourselves tomorrow, sleep in and go riding and do whatever you please. I'll let myself in around four and dinner will be on the table at six. Sharp."

"Yes, ma'am," Jean-Luc exclaimed, saluting. She laughed and gave him a peck on the cheek before letting herself out.

The front door closed firmly; she even locked it, the tumblers rattling briefly. And then the house fell into silence. The crickets outside chirped distantly.

"I'd forgotten what it could be like," Deanna whispered. "Even the hotels we've been staying in were noisier. No engines, no technology -- quiet."

"We're home, Madame. Strange how you look just like you did the last time I saw you here."

She laughed. "Oh, please don't make me think of Q and time travel. I don't want a headache. Though it does remind me of that, and of seeing you here in the hall this way as a young man, with that gleam in your eye." Glancing around again, she stepped closer and put a hand on his chest. "If you feel too uncomfortable with this, we could move on tomorrow after dinner. Go to Rome, or maybe Venice."

He closed his eyes. They stood in silence for a while, close but not touching other than her fingers rubbing his chest through the front of his shirt. Echoes of bygone days came to him -- memories of Maman's perfume and her laughter, Papa's shouting or the rough singing of a favorite song as he came downstairs, Robert's taunts and laughter. That final argument with Papa, as well as many preceding ones. And Robert, Marie, and Rene, as they were the last time he'd visited the family. And then the house -- empty. Marie's haunted eyes, when she'd met him there to discuss vineyard business and look over the vineyards and the winery. More time had passed, she looked better than she had that last meeting, but the ghosts still lingered for her.

Jean-Luc kissed Deanna's cheek and left his lips there. "I have to stop and let it catch up with me some day, cygne. As long as you're here with me I'll be fine. Let's try to make some memories of our own, oui?"

"Your former counselor is proud of you, Jean. So what will we do, our first night at home?"

"Want to go for a walk? Put on some reasonable clothes, and we'll see what's left of the treehouse."

They left through the back door. She'd put on slacks and a light sweater, and her standard issue boots. Finding their way in the dark of a moonless night proved more of an adventure than he'd thought. Finally they stood beneath the hoary old oak tree, the silhouette of it shifting in the breeze.

"I don't think it's there, Jean-Fish. It *was* wood, and it's been years."

"But you know what? We can build a bigger one."

She laughed at it, startled and suddenly sounding freer and happier than she had all day. Throughout their tour of the Louvre and a few other Paris landmarks, she'd slowly edged into a hovering sadness; he wondered if she weren't predicting the mood she thought he'd be in.

"I'm having a little difficulty picturing either of us building a tree house. It's been a few years for me, too. The last one I built. . . ." Silence, the crickets getting loud suddenly. Rustling in the brush nearby, probably a small animal. He waited, then caressed her arm gently. Her head, nothing but a shadow in the deeper shadows beneath the tree, turned.

"Moody bird."

"It's like opening old books," she said. "Isn't it? Old stories you read once, long ago, and the pages sometimes stick together. Or the writing's faded -- but as you read, the details come back to you."

"But it's not your book."

"It reminds me of my book. Everything you remember reminds me of something from my life. You tell me stories, I tell you stories that yours remind me of."

"That's the way it's supposed to go, Dee. Except we were supposed to do that up front, when we were getting to know each other."

"Well, we have to be different. It's our trademark."

He looked up again at the silhouettes of tree branches overhead. The ache began, rising in his chest, blocking his throat, as he remembered Robert's voice -- why was it that he had spent years remembering only the bad, only the arguments, when there had been other times when they had been pirates, or two of the three musketeers, or just a pair of boys hammering nails into boards in the broad branches of a sturdy oak?

Deanna's arms closing around his waist anchored him. His hands drifted to her shoulders automatically. "Old books," he muttered. "Old pages, old chapters. Old voices. This isn't exactly what I intended to give you on our honeymoon."

"I already have almost everything I want, and the means to get the rest." She meshed her fingers in his and held out his arms, making him her cross, burying her face in his shirt. "Ma douleur, mon amour."

"Your suffering. I am that, aren't I, with all my melancholy musings? What about your treehouse? What did you do there?"

"I hid. Mother hated it. I'd climb to get away from her, and she wouldn't climb up after me. After Daddy died I would go there and imagine he'd come up after me like he used to, and we'd sit there singing songs and he'd tell me stories. I could curl up to cry, and Mother would leave me alone because she could sense I was sad, and she had her own mourning to cope with. It's what I missed most about him -- having him to play with."

"Old books."

"But new ones can always be written."

Freeing his hands from hers, he bent to kiss her, pulling her close. She'd taken the time to brush her teeth while upstairs. Her arms went around his neck.

Then she flinched, almost biting his tongue. He let go, and she smacked at her arm. "Something bit me!"

"Probably mosquitos. They'll bite through a thin sweater like that. You're not on a holodeck any more, Deebird."

"They're not poisonous are they?"

He almost laughed at her. "No, chère, but let's go back to the house." He paused. "Dee, you've been on Earth before. You know what a mosquito is, surely."

"But it amused you, didn't it?"

He did laugh, at that. "Inside out, cygne mon amour. Unless you want to be more exposed to their stings than you are at present, we should go inside."

They took a different route, which he regretted -- more undergrowth along the way than he'd counted on. She swore a few times at branches slapping her legs.

"You didn't used to swear that much. I've been a very bad influence on madame."

"You have not -- Mother."

"Is she still grousing about your new job?"

"She has to have something to chide me about. I told her about the miscarriage. I think that's what's set her off. She doesn't want to continually remind me of that, so she's back to picking at my job."

Behind the house, in the gardens, he detoured around the western side of the fence. The stable lay behind the main winery building, just a small four-stall setup with a corral, left over from when previous Picards had taken a fancy to equitation. The building was kept up well, just like the rest of the grounds. The horses shifted in their stalls when they entered the barn and the night light came on automatically. On the left, a dark brown with a blaze-face poked its head over the stall door; a moment later, on the right, a gunmetal grey horse's head appeared.

"It was generous of her to think of this," Deanna said.

"You've said you didn't like large animals -- why?"

"Animals are sensitive to your fear. I can sense their reactions to me in a different way. The first time I met a real horse, it was a little overwhelming." She moved to the grey and patted it, glancing at a note tacked on the post. "Pistolet? Says she's a hunter."

"Pistolet, that's pistol. A little gun. She's that color." Hopefully it didn't mean she'd be off like a shot without warning. The last horse he'd known with a name of firearm derivation had it for that reason. He tore the note off the other horse's stall, patting the inquisitive animal as he read. "This one's a gelding. Forte Cloche." He chuckled, scratching it between the ears. "Loud Bell. Interesting name for a horse."

He took her hand on the way to the house. On the way upstairs he watched her from behind, grinning, and she glanced back at him in amusement. He didn't bother with the lights in the bedroom, dropped articles of clothing on the chair in the corner, and watched her as she looked out the window. She turned around and slowly peeled off the sweater, starlight limning her body.

Pulling down the covers, he sat on the edge of the bed. In the near-darkness he couldn't see anything more than looming silhouettes of furniture until his eyes adjusted further. Deanna wriggled slowly out of the slacks, back turned to him, and instead of climbing in on what was usually her side of the bed, she sauntered around to his. Stood over him, her skin the palest of blues in the starlight -- not warp-distorted starlight, or the strong starlight of open space, but natural Earth starlight filtered through atmosphere and leaves of the tree waving gently in the breeze outside the window. The starlight of home, where he'd spent his childhood.

Setting aside that train of thought, he stood to meet her, drifting a fingertip over her right breast in a spiral from top center to nipple. "Belle dame de la lune -- "

A loud, pealing neigh from outside cut the silence abruptly, drowning out his husky whisper. She giggled. "Now we know why they named him that."

"Cygne, I -- " Another neigh from the gelding. "That's going to get annoying, if he keeps it up."

"It's a challenge, Jean-Fish. See if you can get me to forget the noise."

With a sweep of his arm, he threw her on the bed and tried to stifle her laughter in a kiss as the horse voiced his opinion again.

~^~^~^~^~^~

The sunlight woke him first. Tom experienced a few moments of disorientation; the warmth on his face wasn't normal. He realized the curtains over the window nearest the bed were slightly askew, and that the sun had risen high enough to cast a few rays through the gap.

A light sigh from the mounds of pale covers, a movement, and it all came back -- Beverly. Paris. Lassitude fled as he sat up, reached for the cord, and opened the curtains. Yellow sunlight pooled across the bed, casting deep shadows on the other side of heaped off-white bedspread and sheet. He pulled the covers down slowly, exposing her back. Pale, perfect, smooth, her hair flowing in gentle curves from the back of her head down the pillow, burnished copper with golden highlights, the curve of her neck so delightfully inviting -- her elbows tucked, her arms crossed at the wrist, her hands in front of her chin as if she'd fallen asleep praying, slender fingers curling in slumber. Leaning, trying to see her face, he could see the mounded shape of her breasts pushed together by her arms, the relaxed, peaceful expression on her fine features, the tiny red mark he'd left on her shoulder last night.

So soft, his Verly. Such a study in contradictions. Such warmth and gentleness, until her ire rose and her eyes flashed and softness was the last thing you could accuse her of.

Unable to refrain any longer, Tom slid closer and leaned in. The touch of his lips beneath her ear woke her with a jolt, but then she moved sinuously, stretching her limbs, rolling -- he loved that look, sleepy and satisfied, sly eyes peering through her lashes at him as she woke.

They regarded each other a moment, her eyes wandering down his body. "Good morning to you, too," she murmured. "I see last night seems to have left you none the worse for wear."

"It's you -- I'm addicted. I need therapy, badly. Can you help me?"

"Come closer and ask me that."

She met him halfway, her movements rearranging the covers; he could smell the residual effects of last night's activities in the sheets, which only served to increase his desire. God, he loved the smell of her. She sat up and would have kissed him, had he not realized the case of morning breath he probably had and diverted his forward movement to kiss a different set of lips that wouldn't suffer the consequences. She didn't complain, rose to meet him with a moan, in fact, and while he ran his tongue around her clit and tasted her, she pulled at his knee until he realized what she was doing and moved it as she directed.

He'd never imagined she would be so stimulating, so satisfying -- it was her, he knew, not just the way she kissed or her astounding ability to take so much of him into her mouth, or the way she caressed his thighs and moved beneath his mouth. She was more to him than smooth skin and curvaceous body parts, more than a temporary bedmate. More than a stop in a starbase holosuite for a good time.

She was Beverly, and her teeth were closing gently on him, reminding him that he'd slowed down. The renewed efforts of his tongue made her groan. He backed away after a few moments more, careful not to disturb her, and reoriented himself, noting puzzlement in her eyes -- she'd wanted more of it.

"I need to hold you -- Beverly, gods, I can't stand it -- "

Immersion. He held himself inside her, held her tight, so tight, until he realized it might be too tight and relaxed his arms. Her chin rubbed his shoulder; she kissed his neck, uncertain and seeking reassurance if her stillness were any indicator. Learning to read her body language had been an ongoing process. Sometimes it was all he had to go on, and sometimes he misread, but he had determination on his side.

Easing off was the last thing he wanted -- the ache to complete what they'd started only increased every second he denied the urge. But he took her shoulders in his hands, rested on his elbows, and studied her face at close range.

Thoughts were racing through her head, and they weren't of sex -- something troubled her. Clouds scudded through her blue eyes.

"My Verly is all right?"

It brought her back. She smiled and ran her fingers up the back of his neck. "I'm sorry."

"Want to talk about it?"

Her eyes crossed slightly, looking up into his, pondering. Her mouth closed, the corners turning up, and her hips rose against his insistently. "Later," she whispered, pulling him down over her tongue.

So later it would be. But afterward, curled in sweaty afterglow with her breasts pressed against his chest and her arms and legs twined around him, her mouth laying soft half-kisses along his throat and her breath hot on his skin, he ran his fingers down her back to make her shiver and wondered how many times 'later' would come and go without a word spoken.

And if he spoke a word first -- would she be there afterward?

Just the suggestion of losing her made him pull her closer, bury his face in her hair, close his eyes against it. The years of going to bed with only the insistent worries of a captain, or with a warm body to occupy his for a while -- they weren't enough any more. He couldn't go back to that. Meeting Beverly had made him excruciatingly aware that there was a hole in his life, a great yawning gap -- but she filled it perfectly. She staved off the void simply by being herself. Hell -- maybe she had created the void in the first place. Didn't matter. He had to keep her there, with him, wherever he was, and it didn't matter anymore what he had to do to accomplish that.

"Beverly," he whispered. Praying. Begging. She might not hear it, but he felt it.

"What is it, Tom?"

"I love you."

She bit the soft skin under the hinge of his jaw, stroked his head, dragged her fingernails through his hair. "Geraint."

His name, the one his mother had given him, the one he'd changed to honor his father, that she only used in more intimate moments. She always spoke it like a benediction; he always wanted to hear it that way, from her.

They rose, eventually, and went about the business of showering and ordering up room service. As they sat at the tiny round table near the window overlooking the plaza and the Eiffel tower, eating croissants and sipping coffee, he watched her eat. She turned from the view and noticed.

"You've been looking at me that way," she said, bemused. "How many times have you seen me eat breakfast, and why is it suddenly so fascinating?"

"You're fascinating. I went into Starfleet for exploration -- you're new territory, Verly. I have the feeling I could study you for the rest of my life and not be bored."

For a moment, her eyes held the stars themselves, her pleased smile letting him hope -- but she looked down at her plate, took up her knife, and reached for the jam. A pained expression flitted across her face. She was composed and calm again almost immediately, however, and raised her eyes again. Smiled.

"Thank you," she said, sincere and fervent. "I love this -- being here, with you. I love you. I wish. . . can we come back, some time?"

"If it would please you, absolutely."

Her smile deepened, her eyes flicked to the croissant in her hand coyly. "You have a way of making me feel like. . . ."

"The only rose in my garden?"

She put down knife and croissant and pressed her fingers to her lips. Ducked her head. He thought he'd made a mistake, and struggled for something to say, but she stood and came around the table, curled up in his lap, and kissed him avidly, pushing the taste of raspberry jam and black coffee into his mouth.

It ended as suddenly as it started. She slid off his thighs and went to their bags, pulling out clothing. Tom, left to decipher whatever messages she was sending him, finished his coffee, left the table, pulled off the robe, and got dressed while, in the bathroom, Beverly hummed happily as she put on makeup. She emerged to fling her arms around his neck and kiss him again, then rubbed lipstick off him with her thumb.

"You still want to visit Labarre?"

"Have anywhere you'd rather go?"

Beverly's smile brought stars back to her eyes. "My only requirement is that you're there. Everything else is optional."

Catching her to him, Tom pushed his hand up her shirt. "Then why did you bother getting dressed?"

~^~^~^~^~^~

The room seemed smaller than he remembered. His old room, and Rene's -- it had undergone a transformation since Rene's death, and now looked like a guest room. A nondescript brown coverlet on the bed, plain forest green walls, plain brown carpet.

Jean-Luc looked out at the roof of the winery. Pulling up the window pane, he smiled -- hard to believe at one point he'd been small enough to fit out that opening. Harder still to believe he'd made it across the space between the house and the winery, landed on that roof without breaking his neck, and then leaped from there to the bramble-strewn ground between the buildings.

Wondering if Rene had ever tried the same thing brought pain.

The hinges squealing quietly echoed down the hall. She came in, padding on bare feet, wrapped in a rough brown blanket they'd had on the foot of the bed. The house was colder than she liked. Still mostly asleep, blinking and hair wild around her shoulders, she crossed the room and took him into the blanket with her, into her arms.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I hoped it wouldn't wake you."

"What woke me was not having a husband in bed with me. Moody fish. Was this Rene's room?"

"And my room, long ago. Looks completely different. Except for that bookcase next to the closet."

She moved with him, still wrapped around him, the grace with which they executed the maneuver bringing a smile to his lips. Dropping the edge of the blanket, she touched the spines of the old books. "Were these yours?"

"Some of them are that old. This one, the Little Prince, was one of Maman's favorites." He studied the others and realized after a while that he'd lost himself in musings, and she still leaned against him, eyes closed. She jumped when he kissed her hair.

"You're falling asleep, cygne. Back to bed. Let me close the window and I'll be in momentarily."

She was snoring softly when he came to the side of the bed. Watching her there in the light of morning, sprawled on her stomach in the covers with her hair loosely fanned over her right shoulder, he allowed himself to feel the full measure of love and affection he held inside. With the leisure of not having to be on the bridge in half an hour, he could indulge in the admiration of the woman he shared his life with, could pour it out to her as she slept and take pleasure in the smile that blossomed on her face -- even in slumber, she was that sensitive to him.

Her face had a luminous quality, a serenity that generated a similar feeling in him. He'd started calling her goddess of the moon, referring to the origins of her name, and it suited her. The moon of Earth and his cygne shared the same pale tranquility. He remembered looking through his telescope at the craters and mares of the moon as a boy, admiring it from afar as he sometimes felt he admired Deanna -- there were still depths of her he hadn't explored.

Intimacy had new meaning with her. He'd always known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that she sensed more than she admitted. She knew him as only an empath and counselor could -- she could manipulate him and he'd never know it. Trusting her had been like putting on a blindfold and leaping off a cliff once he realized the extent of her abilities. Hajira had been unforeseen but welcome, compliment and complication. He wondered if he would have been able to cope without it -- if at some point he would have felt too intimidated, too exposed, and withdrawn from her -- but he also knew she would have compensated before he could withdraw.

And children -- she would do that for him. She would be his officer, his wife, and the mother of his children. They'd have her eyes, probably. He wasn't certain whether he wanted a boy or girl first; girls had their own special qualities, and no doubt a daughter would be sweet-natured and merry, beautiful as her mother, quick to smile or laugh. Amy, they would call her. The boy would be Yves. For some reason, he couldn't picture the boy. All he could see was the vague memory of Ian, but Yves would be his son, too, with some reflection of that in his appearance.

Deanna sighed, shifted a leg beneath the covers, and brought his attention back to her. It occurred to him again that he didn't deserve her. After spending his life dismissing the idea of having a wife, he judged himself inadequate by his own reckoning, unprepared for the nuances of such a relationship. Wanting and having were very different things. He had wanted, to the point of refusing to bow to common sense that said officers in the same chain of command weren't supposed to be lovers. He had wanted to the point of marrying her. They had defied all odds and made it work -- yet part of him occasionally dragged the rest of him aside and laughed hysterically at him. All she wanted, she said, was him -- leaving him at a loss for why. For love, of course, she would answer. Which brought him back to why. Deanna Troi could have chosen a less troublesome, less careworn mate.

But she wanted him, and he trusted her, more than anyone else in the universe. All he could do was give her what she wanted. He wanted it too, after all. To see her happy, to see her smiling -- to see her being an officer he could honestly say he was proud to have on his bridge, regardless of personal entanglements. Even if he had to suffer through hell while she went on dangerous away missions.

Her smile was fading slowly. Rather than stand there while she slept and risk waking her with his emotional backwash, he shrugged into his robe and left the room.

He hesitated at the foot of the stairs. Humming, from the kitchen -- Au Clair de la Lune. Abruptly it shot him back in time. His heart twisted -- Maman. Holding his breath, he went the last few meters and came around the stasis unit, and found Marie standing at the counter unpacking a bag. She turned in alarm at the soft scrape of his bare foot on the wood floor.

"Oh, Jean-Luc -- I'm sorry. I hope I didn't wake you, I only wanted to leave off groceries for dinner tonight. It's so early I thought certainly you would still be asleep. I do my marketing in the morning, you see, and. . . . Are you all right?"

"Fine, fine, you were only reminding me of Maman -- the song you were humming."

She blanched and looked at the floor. "I'm sorry. I'd forgotten. Robert used to sing that song, it must be the house. Being here reminded me. . . I'm so sorry."

"It reminds me, too, otherwise it wouldn't have affected me. No matter. Deanna sings it sometimes. She's learning French."

Marie's eyes glowed at the mention of Deanna. "She's so beautiful, especially in person, and I can tell she's been good for you. I'm so glad you have her. Her eyes -- that's because she is Betazoid? Forgive me, I'm not sure what that means, other than she is from another planet."

"Betazoids are very similar to us in many respects, but they're also telepaths. Deanna is an empath because she's half human."

"Empath, meaning. . . ."

"She senses emotions. Not thoughts, like telepaths. You could say telepaths read minds, and she reads hearts."

"What a lovely gift. Although, it could be a curse -- knowing someone's heart means seeing the darkness as well as the light, I suppose." Her warm smile dwindled. "Why are you looking like that?"

"It's difficult sometimes. We don't live a simple life, on a starship."

"Ah, you worry about her. But she's lived aboard your ship for years, you said."

Jean-Luc smiled at that. "Yes. Worrying about her is irrational. I know she can take care of herself, and she can handle what she senses quite well. But being here brings up old memories, not all of them pleasant, and I could think of better ways to spend a honeymoon than sensing one's husband going through angst and regret."

Marie put fruit in a bowl and set it to one side. "She probably knows you need to face it. I did, and it took my sister driving me out here to walk around the house for me to do it, but it does get easier. You've avoided mentioning Robert or Rene to me, and you don't have to. It's still an ache, but it's not a sharp one. Or is it still, with you?"

He hid behind his professional face, contemplating the reason for her calm and the profound misjudgement he'd made in thinking she wouldn't be able to talk about her deceased family -- but was it she who was uncomfortable, or was it him? She turned to him when he didn't answer right away, a package of vegetables in one hand, and took a step his direction. Then she looked past him and smiled.

"Good morning," she said.

He turned as well. Deanna had come downstairs, wrapped in a thick fuzzy green robe. Still tired-eyed but more awake than before, she smiled at Marie and came to stand in front of him. Her eyes questioned and reproached him.

"Did I wake you?" he asked.

"Is the guilt because you woke me, or because Marie reminds you of deceased family you ignored for too many years?"

Jean-Luc threw himself against the stasis unit, arms outstretched. "Both nails at the same time -- I see why you tried to schedule counseling appointments later in the day, you're hell in the morning."

Deanna poked him in the stomach and shuffled for the sink. "You can take it. Get down off the crucifix and find me the tea."

Marie's light laughter went a long way toward soothing him. She smiled at Jean-Luc, winking, and shook her head as she opened a cupboard and passed a tin of tea to Deanna. "He said you could sense emotions -- I wish I could have had such a gift. You must find it much simpler to deal with that Picard silence, being able to tell what goes on underneath. Picard men are like that. Even Rene could be close-mouthed, at times."

Over the water she was running into the tea kettle, Deanna said, "Maman said they make good husbands when they're domesticated. It's true enough of him."

"She did?" Marie hesitated, then closed the cupboard the rest of the way and turned around, glancing at Jean-Luc in puzzlement. "Chère, forgive me, but I never met her -- and you certainly don't appear to be as old as I am. You look half my age, and Yvette's been dead longer than that."

Deanna shut off the water and shot an open-mouthed glance at Jean-Luc. Marie had no idea what sorts of impossibilities existed in space -- Q and time travel would be too fantastic an explanation.

Marie herself headed off the explanations. "But -- you are Betazoid, and I shouldn't make assumptions that you age the same as we do -- and of course, you must be the same Deanna she mentioned to Robert. How silly of me. It only threw me a little -- Jean-Luc didn't mention you the last two times he was here, but then he wouldn't necessarily have done so."

"When did Maman tell Robert about Deanna?" Jean-Luc blurted. "And how did he come to tell you?"

"Oh -- when you were here, visiting all of us -- after you left I commented to Robert that you seemed a lonely sort of person. He said you probably weren't so lonely as all that, and you know how conversations go, one thing leads to another. . . I finally asked if you'd ever married. He hadn't spoken of you much prior to that point, you see, and I really had no idea. He laughed and said that your parents had argued about you often, your maman usually defending you, and that once Maurice had claimed you would never marry or have children -- and your maman pointed out that on one of your few homecomings, you had a visitor named Deanna who seemed very much the sort of woman you would marry. The only girl you'd ever had here before, and Robert said you had never brought another since."

Jean-Luc leaned against the stasis unit again, then looked down at himself, still in the robe. "Excuse me -- I should probably get dressed." He hurried upstairs.

When he came down wearing something suitable for riding, Marie was gone. Deanna had set the table and placed a cup of tea in front of him as he took a chair. She paused with a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm all right," he said unnecessarily.

"Maman probably remembered me so well only because I was the only one of your girlfriends she'd ever met, you know." Her soft footfalls retreated to the counter, then returned. Tea in hand, she sat at the head of the table, on his right. "You surprised Marie, by how upset it made you. She said to tell you she was sorry."

"It wasn't that -- I'm actually glad she mentioned it, because it means I'm not the only one who remembers, and it really happened. Maman approved of you. Even if Q had to be the vehicle for it, that makes me happy. I was angry because Maman defended me. She actually argued with him -- Papa wasn't pleasant when he was angry, and I can imagine what his response to her suggestion that we were in Starfleet together would have been. He would disapprove of any Madame Picard being in service. He was that old-fashioned."

Her hand found his under the table, prying his fingers apart to insinuate hers. "Why does it upset you so?"

He found very little air left in his lungs to reply. Rubbing his brows, he rested his elbow on the table and calmed himself. "Promise me that you won't let me do that to our children -- be so judgmental. I don't want to be that way -- I don't want to fight with you about that, I -- "

"Jean-Fish, stop. Listen to yourself. Do you think your father ever said anything like that to your mother?"

He laughed bitterly, clinging to her hand. "I wish I could know that he had."

"She sounded happy in the letters she sent you, except for missing you. She wouldn't have been so happy if there weren't some rewards for her, living here with your father. He must have loved her, and you. He might have said the same sort of thing to her -- but you know she couldn't have done anything about his behavior."

"Maman tried to convince me he loved me. How could I believe that? Everything I wanted to do, he scoffed at. He certainly never showed any pride in anything I did."

Deanna picked up a pear and ate one-handed, still squeezing his fingers under the table. "Never?"

"Not in those things I thought were most important."

"What did *he* think were most important?"

"The family. The vineyard. The wine. Tradition, and keeping it. He -- " Jean-Luc stopped with a finger through the handle of his tea cup. Deanna's eyes, when he met them, were full of affirmation and pride.

"You decided to keep the vineyard, rather than sell it. I imagine we'll bring Yves home often?"

He gaped a moment longer and turned it into a smile. "You said you couldn't be my counselor any more."

"It doesn't take a degree to be able to listen and offer reassurances."

"Belle cygne." She freed his hand, and they ate for a few moments in silence. The rolls were fresh and still warm; Marie must have brought them. He didn't think a replicator could mimic the smell of fresh bread that well. "He never would have approved of Starfleet, however. I wish I could get away with claiming it's of no consequence, but you won't let me do that. For some unknown reason, some part of me actually. . . wants him to? Is that why it upsets me?"

"We all want our parents' approval. I think he would have liked the man you've become, cher. I can't imagine who wouldn't. Other than a few Romulans, of course."

The pear, firm yet sweet, brought back another memory -- sitting on the front steps eating pears, laughing with Robert at some terrible joke he'd told. He finished it slowly, lost in thought until Deanna leaned and brushed a napkin across his chin, wiping away pear juice.

"Stop that!"

"I couldn't resist. It's been a while since you've snapped at me."

"Deebird, you consistently amaze me. Why would you *want* me to?"

"It's just how you are. It's reassuring. You feel comfortable enough with me to do it."

Her eyes held the light from the window in them, and, surprisingly, small reflections of him. He laughed at it and kissed her cheek as he rose. "More tea?"

"Certainly." Her smile invited him, so he kissed that, too. "Such a fortunate turn of mood. Suddenly I have an affectionate husband again."

"What husband have you had, if not the affectionate one?" He went to the stove and found the water not hot enough. Leaning against the counter while he waited for it to boil, he watched Deanna tear a roll into bites with her fingers.

"So far, on the honeymoon? I've seen the passionate one, quite a lot of him. He's a favorite of mine. And the one who likes to talk about history -- he smiles a lot, so I like him, too. I like the paternal one, who smiles at children. The funny one, who retaliates when I play little pranks. The affectionate one was with me until we came here. Then there's the one who wanders like a storm cloud, thinking about the past. I think he pushed the affectionate one aside for a while, but. . . ."

The kettle whistled. He thumbed off the stove, and the whistling died swiftly. She watched him pouring water, brewing tea, adding cream and sugar, bringing the cups -- her eyes spoke worry at him but she said nothing. He sat down and sipped carefully. Put aside the cup. Turned to his food, averting his eyes, hoping the anxiety would pass.

They finished eating in silence, taking their time. Deanna put her empty cup down and contemplated the crumbs on her plate. "I'll change, and we'll go riding. I've missed it, actually."

"Do I really remind you of a storm cloud?"

The strained tone, the resurgence of emotion, surprised her -- it surprised him, too. She looked a little shaken by it. "It was only a descriptive phrase, an exaggeration. You haven't been that bad, Jean-Luc. Better than I feared, if you must know."

"He was like that -- like a dark cloud. Like a storm about to break. He did, often."

Her nails digging into his wrist made him gasp. "You aren't the same. You aren't your father, Jean-Luc, and if you don't stop letting yourself slide into -- look at me. My eyes. If you treated me the way you're afraid of doing, do you think these eyes would be telling you something different?"

When he looked, he found heart fire in them. Warmth flooded through him in waves.

"Snap out of it! I won't have this, so either stop comparing yourself to your father or beam up and talk to your counselor."

He laughed at his own absurdity. "I'm sorry, I surrender, get dressed. Let's get out of the house."

She thumped his shoulder for good measure and left him to clean up. He found himself humming as he did so, the same song Marie had been humming. While putting away dishes, he heard Deanna's boots on the steps and her voice softly singing along with him, as she came into the kitchen.

"Au clair de la lune, L'aimable Arlequin Frappa chez la brune, Qui réépond soudain: Qui frapp' de la sorte? Il dit àà son tour: Ouvrez votre porte, Pour le dieu d'amour."

"Yes, but do you know what it means?" Crossing to join her, he chuckled at her comical scowl. "I've heard you sing it plenty of times but you've never claimed to have worked out the translation. Or did you give up?"

"By the light of the moon, the lovable harlequin knocks on his neighbor's door. He claims to be the god of love. And you know, if harlequins are sad clowns. . . . You've been sad and you've been known to have a sense of humor. Even be a little clownish. So you're my harlequin, therefore, you must be the god of love."

"Faulty reasoning, Deebird."

She gave him a sly sideways glance as they headed for the back door. "Without supporting evidence, yes, it is. However, I have *plenty* of experience to draw upon to support my hypothesis."

Deanna ran a finger just inside the open collar of his shirt. He slowed, raising an eyebrow. "Perhaps I've misinterpreted something. Were we intending to ride the *horses*?"

"I didn't say you were the god of sex. Love and sex aren't the same thing, you know."

"Oh." Resuming speed and heading, he was almost within reach of the door when she spoke again and brought him to a halt once more.

"It isn't as though you don't have practice being a god, after all."

It brought him completely around, looking back at her -- in her tight breeches, the thin white shirt stretched across her breasts with a short beige jacket over it, and her hair tied up in a pony tail, she looked almost like a girl. Almost. The salacious grin and the look in her eyes negated the effect.

"And watching you walk down the hall in those tight pants, I'd be inclined to entertain the notion of your being the god of sex. If there was one, he'd probably be fuckingly-handsome, after all. I also like the sleeveless shirt, it shows off those strong arms. The shoulders too."

"Come over here and say that again," he murmured.

"But I can't -- the great and terrible Picard is a fearsome god. He might become angered, if a mere mortal such as myself approached."

"The great and terrible Picard might be more angry if you stay over there."

Sauntering up to him, she clenched her hands in a begging posture. "Please don't smite me, oh great one!"

"I don't care much for this game."

"I suppose you wouldn't." She shrugged. "The Picard didn't care for it last time, either. After you, oh great one."

He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. It took a moment, but he got it, and feigned a scowl. "I'd better not find a bunch of Mintakans with bows and arrows on the other side of this door, or madame's in a lot of trouble."

She opened the door and let it swing open, showing the empty yard. "Let's go riding, l'aimable Arlequin."

~^~^~^~^~^~

"Absolutely stunning countryside," Tom exclaimed as they topped a hill along the road. The fields to their right were still green, but slowly turning yellow. A few wild flowers still blossomed here and there. Birds -- different songs, but familiar in spite of that. On their left a long stone wall, about chest-high and covered with ivy.

"I had no idea," Beverly said. "I love this. Rustic, and did you see the way people in the village all knew each other?" She looked wonderful, completely at ease in a soft grey pantsuit with a loose cowl-like top, hair loose over her shoulders. The sunlight brought out golden highlights in her hair; she'd been experimenting with tinting again, albeit subtly.

"No worse than back home in Vernonia. You walk into the middle of town and everyone's going to know right away you aren't from around there. We may have a lot of flowers growing there, but none of them are like you."

She laughed and leaned on him, squeezing his fingers. "You keep saying you're no poet."

"Do you hear that?"

A whoop and a holler joined the sound of hoofbeats, which had begun somewhere off to their left as they talked. Ahead of them a grey horse rocketed over the wall onto the road. Tom recognized the rider's hair, masses of dark curls tied in a ponytail, from behind -- the horse took to the air again a stride later to hurdle the low rail fence separating road from the grassy fields, then charged away down the slope.

Then a dark brown horse flew over the stone fence. Jean-Luc must have seen them. The horse pulled up short of the rail fence, rearing for a moment and wheeling about, dirt clods flying from its hooves. It champed the bit under tight rein, backing and sidling anxiously. Horse and rider appeared to be one entity; Jean-Luc sat in the saddle as if adhered to it.

"Well, hello!"

"Hi," Beverly exclaimed, sidling behind Tom when the horse snorted and pranced, then whinnied explosively, nostrils quivering.

Jean-Luc laughed -- he was enjoying himself immensely, with a carefree boisterousness Tom hadn't seen him exhibit before. "Go on up the road, I'll go catch Dee before she gets herself hung in a fence and we'll meet you on the way."

Freed from the tight rein and encouraged by spurs to flanks, the horse sprang forward, went over the rail fence, and pounded away down the field after the rapidly-dwindling grey and its rider. A loud summoning whistle drifted back to them, and another neigh from the brown horse.

"Do you ride, Tom?" Beverly asked as they resumed their leisurely walk up the road.

"I've ridden, but not English, and not since I was a kid. But you know, that was a big kid if I ever saw one."

Beverly gaped a moment. "You're right. Come to think of it -- I haven't seen him enjoy himself like that in a long time."

The road took them past a corner in the stone wall, and a high board fence picked up where the stone left off. They dipped through a gully across a bridge over a stream, then up another small hill. The shrubbery along the fence got shorter and at the top of the hill ceased, and vineyards came into view. Beverly hesitated and stared at the rows of vines.

And hoofbeats became audible to their right, and there they were, topping the rise and slowing the wet-shouldered horses to a trot. Foam dripped around the bits, the beasts snorted and blew, the grey tossing its head repeatedly.

"Found the vineyard, I see," Jean-Luc exclaimed, a ringing note to his voice that Tom knew wasn't the captain's usual. "It's not far."

They walked forward, between the horses, which the couple kept at a slow, impatient walk. "She doesn't like this," Deanna exclaimed, hanging on to the reins with clenched fists.

"I thought you didn't like big animals, or even small ones, necessarily," Beverly said.

"It was too hard to tolerate what I sensed from them, once upon a time. Riding on the holodeck was easier because the horses there have no emotive ability. But it's like anything else, practice makes it easier." The grey bolted, came up short against the bit, and Deanna glanced at Jean-Luc while trying to keep her under control. "Her name's Pistol because she's usually wanting to be off like a shot, Jean. She's not going to settle down."

"Run her home then." Jean-Luc's horse wanted to follow, half-rearing as the grey took off up the road. He calmed the neighing horse and made it walk. "Stop it, Forte. You complain too much."

"Doesn't that make your arms tired?" Tom asked, watching the muscles in his bare arms bulge against the strain on the reins. "Or hurt the horse's mouth?"

"Neither, evidently, since he hasn't let up since we started. Once you get them excited they just want to run."

The road kept going, but Jean-Luc led them down a side lane between high hedges, finally reaching a turnaround in front of a low decorative fence. Deanna trotted the grey, calmer now, in circles while waiting for them. Jean-Luc let his horse trot alongside, pull ahead, and caught the reins as they stopped. After Deanna dismounted, he trotted the horses around the side of the yard and house.

Tom followed Beverly as she went up the walk with Deanna toward the house through a familiar lawn and garden area. The site of the wedding minus the rampant flowers blooming everywhere, he realized, glancing down across the vineyards sloping away from the yard between some tall trees.

Tom found himself playing third wheel, listening as the two happily-chatting friends went through the kitchen pulling together ingredients for some sort of cool beverage they hadn't decided on yet. Eventually a door slammed and Jean-Luc came up the back hall at a quick clip, boots loud on the wood flooring. He stopped at the kitchen table, studied the situation, and gestured at Tom.

Curious, Tom followed the other captain through the entry into the living room. Both of them sat in the armchairs in a corner near the hearth, facing the picture window across the room through which they could see the vineyards. Crossing his legs, Jean-Luc put his hands behind his head and looked at Tom.

"Beverly driving you crazy yet?"

"By slow increments. It's a pleasant enough trip. Nice scenery."

Jean-Luc sniffed. "Wouldn't know."

"You've got some nice acreage yourself. Literally, too. Do we get a tour of the place?"

"If you want. How's the new ship?"

"Almost ready. I keep checking in when Beverly's out of hearing. Which isn't often, but it's enough, thanks to a decent crew. Yours in good shape?"

"Just a few upgrades and some servicing of the systems. Dee's handling it." A little of the pride leaked through in that last statement. Tom grinned.

"Surprises you to this day that she's come this far, doesn't it?"

"You have no idea how she's changed. No -- changed is the wrong word. It's always been there, she just didn't think so." He brought his hands down to the arm rests of the chair, tipped his head back, and looked out the window. "What surprises me more is that she does it so easily with me in command."

"I don't think she would have done it if you hadn't been in command. I think she did it for you."

No outward reaction to speak of, but he peered at Tom through his eyelashes. "What do you mean?"

"Not that it was her entire motivation, but I'd bet she kept at it hard as she did because she wanted your approval. Haven't you ever had a CO you wanted to gain approval from, so bad you stayed up late studying and pulled extra duty shifts to impress?"

"She's doing it because she wants to, and for no other reason." He didn't sound too convinced of it, and that he promptly turned to other subjects verified it. "I'm surprised to see you today. Thought you'd be grabbing a chance at privacy."

"We're supposed to go to Oregon today. Beverly doesn't show it much, but I think she's nervous about meeting my family."

"Four sisters, you said? I can see why. With spouses and children, that should be quite a crowd looking her over."

Tom shook his head and slumped. Soft chair for doing it in, he thought appreciatively. "Don't know why she'd worry. I already know Olivia's going to issue death threats if I don't marry this one. Bev's only the second one who's made it to see the family." A deep sigh escaped without permission.

"Sounds like someone's got a lot of old memories surfacing -- I see I'm not the only one."

"Just the thought of my sisters. My mom didn't like the idea of Starfleet. Because of the long separations -- she never had a clue about the danger. It's so far removed from what she knew. My sisters don't have a clue, either. Although in a way that's a welcome thing. Lets me forget about it for a while myself."

He stopped when he noticed Jean-Luc looking at him with a more sober, aware expression than usual. Strange how he could communicate so much without twitching a muscle. "Jean-Luc?"

Jean-Luc turned his head slightly as if to aim an ear toward the kitchen; the women's voices were barely audible now, no longer high and amused but murmuring in more serious tones. Then the voices paused, and all that could be heard were the shift of leaves outside the open window and a distant bird call. A clatter of a utensil in the sink broke the spell.

"Beverly seems happy," Jean-Luc said.

Tom stared at him, until he met his gaze; pointing with his chin in the direction of the kitchen, Tom said, "They're talking about me, aren't they?"

"How would I know?"

"You had that focused expression like you were thinking at Deanna. I've almost got you two pegged."

He snorted and ran a hand down his face. "Have to do something about that."

"I wish Beverly would talk to me about me."

Jean-Luc's eyelids dropped at that, shielding his reaction from the world at large, and he rubbed his upper lip with a knuckle. "Have you tried asking her to?"

"Right. Confrontations work *so* well with her."

The other man's laughter was disconcerting. "Merde," Jean-Luc muttered. "She wouldn't leave -- not you."

"Not me? What makes me so different -- never mind. I don't want to know. Unless she tells me, and she won't."

"Don't be too certain of that. She might surprise you. Women are good at that."

"Aren't they?" Tom smirked. "Did Deanna bring that red dress on the honeymoon?"

The reference to a long-ago meeting in a bar on Rigel brought an interesting reaction from Jean-Luc -- his face went from mild amusement to controlled, and he looked out the window as if seeking safe haven for his eyes. He sighed and shook his head. "No, she hasn't -- she has others, more comfortable ones, that are just as appealing. She's modified her wardrobe to my tastes, I'm guessing. Something I'm only now beginning to see. I haven't seen some outfits more than once, and others seem to get frequent usage. Generally it seems to correspond with ones I like the most."

"I don't see how that could be upsetting. I'd be flattered -- that's some long-term observation she's putting into it."

"Yes." A rueful, appreciative smile. "She's far more than I deserve."

"I can relate to that."

"I can see why. An old, busted-up rabble-rousing career fleeter like you?"

Tom sniffed. "Coming from a tight-assed curmudgeon, that's a compliment."

They were laughing when Deanna breezed in with glasses of lemonade. "Am I interrupting the routine posturing session?" she asked, handing them their drinks. Jean-Luc balanced his glass on his thigh and looked up at her critically.

"Do I know you?"

Deanna rolled her eyes dramatically. "No, I don't think so."

"You know, I haven't seen my wife around in a while -- what do you say to a little game of strip poker?"

"Is your friend playing, too?" She turned a sly smile on Tom.

Jean-Luc scowled. "Out!"

"That's what I thought. Sorry, Tom, better luck next time." She winked at him and went back to the kitchen. She wore those skin-tight breeches well, Tom noticed, watching her leave.

"When are you going to quit leering at her already?" Picard muttered.

Tom turned to him with a lazy smile. "I can't pay the lady a compliment once in a while?"

"You did that last night, staring down the front of her dress."

"Nothing gets past you, does it?"

He gave him twisted smile. "And don't you forget it."

A glass of lemonade was only the beginning. Lunch was announced shortly after, and was eaten on the kitchen table, with much laughter as Beverly loosened up and anecdotes flew. Somewhere along the way Deanna went upstairs to change out of her riding clothes into a green house dress, returning to refill lemonade, tidy the kitchen, and otherwise behave as a housewife would. Enjoying it, apparently, and in high spirits; in between talking to their guests, the couple exchanged quick glances and a few bantering remarks. Here, finally, was the relationship they never showed on the ship in public. Two people in love, enjoying each other and completely at ease with each other.

Jean-Luc involved Tom in technical conversations about the differences between their two vessels, to which Deanna had a surprising number of contributions. Tom let himself be lured out of his usual shell gradually and attempted to include Beverly, who for once became the onlooker in a conversation, and looked a little amused and bored by it.

And in the middle of it all, a chirp of a communicator broke the spell, bringing them all up from the relaxed stances they'd adopted. Beverly's elbow hit her glass, and Deanna was there with a towel in seconds -- then she tapped the collar of the house dress. She had to have the comm badge hidden under it.

"Yes, deLio?"

"Sir, sorry to interrupt, but you said you wanted those reports when all of them were completed. And there are also a number of messages for you and the captain, as well, and an invitation that Ensign Greenman is insisting must be delivered personally. With that in mind, I'd like to beam her down to deliver everything so we need not bother you again."

"Go ahead, deLio. Troi out."

"Have you been carrying that blasted thing around this entire trip?" Beverly exclaimed. "What kind of honeymoon is this?"

"It's what happens with the first officer and the captain both off the ship."

Jean-Luc laughed dryly. "It's what happens when a counselor becomes a first officer -- she wrestles the captain's communicator away from him and forces him to take leave so she can be in charge for a while. She's already been back and forth a few times."

A knock on the front door let them know the expected visitor had arrived. Deanna went to answer and returned with an ensign in a gold and black uniform. The girl glanced at Tom, then Beverly. "Hello, Dr. Crusher. Captain Glendenning."

"What the hell do you want, Ensign?" Jean-Luc snapped, with such hostility that Tom jumped.

Greenman didn't flinch -- she looked like she wanted to laugh. "Permission to address the captain regarding a personal matter, sir."

"You said you were loosening those boots months ago. What the devil's taking you so long?"

"I prefer them tight, sir."

Deanna moved around the table, tapped Jean-Luc on the head with the padd she held, and headed for the back of the house. "You're not in uniform, so be nice, Jean-Luc."

"Fine. What is it, Natalia?" A meteoric plunge from anger to amiable irritability. Though, from the reactions of ensign and XO, this was an act, and Tom thought he could see a twitch of the ends of Jean-Luc's lips.

The ensign grinned, her shoulders sagging slightly. "My mom wants me to invite you and Deanna to dinner tomorrow night. I would've told you sooner, but she wanted me to make the invitation in person, and make sure you didn't turn it down. And by the time she asked me to invite you, you'd already left for leave and Commander deLio refused to help me find you for such a trivial reason. He said he had orders not to contact you unless the ship fell apart or the crew mutinied. I tried to get a mutiny going but of course it didn't work, and I swore off destruction of Starfleet property, so I had to wait and keep my ears open -- I asked Mr. Carlisle and he said I could add an invite to the reports but Mom wanted me to do it in person. Since I was unsuccessful in giving you more notice, if you can't make it I'll take the heat -- "

"Where? What time?"

"Our house, in San Francisco, arrival any time between three and five, leave when you want to, and I'm making my famous marionberry cobbler. It's the only thing I can cook other than toast or chocolate chip cookies, but I do it the right way. Uncle Telly says he's looking forward to seeing you again."

Jean-Luc and Beverly exchanged glances. "Uncle Telly?" Beverly asked.

"Telemachus Finch. He's not really related to any of us but he was -- "

"Walker's fishing partner, and one of his former crew," Jean-Luc exclaimed. "He used to try to get me to go fishing with them. How is he?"

"You'll just have to come see, I guess."

Jean-Luc's sighed in resigned amusement. "Is there an ulterior motive at work? I don't give promotions in exchange for cobblers, regardless of quality."

"Not even when it's got vanilla ice cream with it? I can even make it French vanilla."

Beverly drew the next irritated look by muffling a giggle too late. She leaned across the table and patted Jean-Luc's arm. "Come on, I'll be there too. We're going down for the evening to do it. I haven't seen Melissa in too long. Besides, if you aren't there she'll just ask me all the questions, and I don't feel like talking about you all night."

"Well, Natalia, was ice cream your final incentive, or should I hold out for -- "

"Captain," she cried, laughing. "It's not like I have a lot to bribe you with. I could start blackmailing you -- your mother-in-law said -- "

"ENOUGH! We'll be there!" Jean-Luc shouted. Beverly leaned back as if propelled by the force of it.

Tom watched the ensign -- she'd jumped about two feet backward and went wide-eyed. Then she grinned. "I'll let Mom know. See you tomorrow, Captain." She tapped her communicator. "Greenman to *Enterprise,* one to beam aboard."

When seconds later the ensign had vanished, Jean-Luc slammed his hand on the table. "DEE!"

She reappeared from wherever she'd gone, coming to stand at his shoulder. "I do have ears, Jean-Luc. You could rattle the dishes a little more quietly."

"What did your mother tell Natalia about me?" he asked, soft but deadly.

"If you had joined us for a mud bath as Mother asked, you would have found out. Wouldn't you?"

"I don't appreciate her giving my ensigns ammunition for blackmail," he growled.

"Did you listen long enough to find out what it was Natalia would have used against you?" Deanna patted his shoulder. "Jean-Luc, she didn't tell her anything embarrassing. I wouldn't have allowed it. You and your paranoia about Mother. Besides, Natalia wouldn't do that to you. If she wanted to blackmail you, she already knows about Ensign Billings. Anything Mother told her would be superfluous."

"How does she know about that?" Tom asked. "Was she a member of the fan club?" Ensign Billings, he had been told by Data, was a code word once used by a crowd of gawkers whenever Jean-Luc visited the gymnasium.

Jean-Luc turned on him, but Deanna slapped his arm, rescuing Tom from death by glare. "Blame yourself. We left Data sitting there that night after the reception, remember? He probably told them. Settle down."

"We need to get going," Tom said, realizing the time at last by the bonging of a grandfather clock somewhere in the house.

Jean-Luc subsided long enough for a pleasant leave-taking, but as Tom and Beverly shut the door and crossed the porch, Tom heard Jean-Luc's voice rising again stridently. "First time I've heard him that openly upset about anything," Tom commented.

"Guess he figures he may as well open up about it, since she can sense it anyway." Beverly took his hand. He glanced down at the bracelet on her wrist and searched the pocket of the light jacket he'd worn over his short-sleeved shirt. As they reached the main road, he pulled out the box and held it out to her.

She stared open-mouthed at it a moment, making him wonder why it would be so upsetting to receive a gift, then realized what she must think. With his thumb he popped up the lid to reveal the earrings that matched the bracelet. Gasping, she put a palm to her face, propping her other hand on her hip.

"Tom," she moaned. "They're beautiful. I'm sorry -- "

"Don't apologize. I told you I wouldn't push you, Verly. I just didn't realize what you'd think first -- I should have. Don't worry about that, I won't pop out a ring in this kind of setting."

"Put them on for me, I'm afraid I'll drop one." She caught his hand again as she spoke. He'd shaken her that much that she was trembling, her fingers giving it away.

Rather than ask questions that would upset her further, he threaded the wires through her earlobes, put the box back in his pocket, and took her face in his hands. "Okay?"

"I'm fine. It just startled me, that's all. Thank you. They're beautiful, just like the bracelet -- just like you." When she stepped further into his arms, he followed through by running his fingers through her hair and holding her by the head and shoulder, returning her kiss eagerly.

They stood holding each other for a few moments after the kiss. She rested her head on his shoulder. "I hope I don't let you down, Tom."

"Don't start that again. You're a good officer. I have complete faith in your professionalism. Don't force me to order you to believe that." He stepped away from her at last. Reaching in his pocket, he fastened the communicator to his shirt.

"Oh, Tom, you're as bad as Dee," she exclaimed.

"Well, I don't have the luxury of having a first officer along with a communicator, so. . . anyway, it'll come in handy. I'm willing to play guinea pig to the transporters on our new ship to get us home before anyone else shows up. Accounting for the time difference between France and the west coast of North America, we'll be right on time."

Beverly thought for a minute. "What's the time difference?"

"About nine hours. It's two here, we talked too much, brunch turned to lunch, and Ollie said she'd start breakfast at seven."

"But. . . that means it's five in the morning there."

"Yep. We'll walk up to my favorite hill top and watch the sun rise. On the way back to the house, we'll visit the greenhouses and I'll pilfer a bunch of roses for my favorite redhead."

She caught his arm before he could tap his comm badge. Her expression solemn, she contemplated, then kissed his cheek. "I love you, Geraint."

Hands on her shoulders, he studied her face. Some of the fear was back, bringing a little melancholy with it.

"Would you rather not go? The truth, Verly. I know meeting my family is another one of those steps that makes you think we're going too far too fast, but I just didn't know when we'd get back to Earth again, and I know Cat wants to see you." When her eyes dropped, he palmed her cheek and rubbed his thumb along her temple. "You want to go somewhere else, we'll go. Anywhere you want. I invited my sisters to the commission ceremony. You could meet them there, on our turf."

She pressed her lips together then smiled, finally meeting his eyes. "No. I want to meet the twins, and Ollie. See where you grew up. And that sunrise sounds nice."

"Sounds like the nicest part of the whole day." He kissed her, reassured himself by her ready response that things were truly as they should be, and stood back to hail the *Venture.*

~^~^~^~^~^~

Jean-Luc refilled and drank another glass of water. He turned to find Deanna standing in the middle of the kitchen floor behind him and almost jumped.

"Sorry." She gave him a once-over. "You look like you've been out doing something sweaty."

"You look like a first officer. I'm starting to wonder if I should take this personally -- this is the fourth time in the last two weeks. Get it taken care of?"

She pulled off pips as she turned, and he followed her, intending to clean up. By the top of the stairs she had her jacket off and started on the shirt, and it distracted him until she started speaking again.

"Everything's shipshape on the bridge, and the difficulty with deOrda is smoothed over for the moment. I didn't think a L'norim would ever lose his temper that way, but maybe it's just deLio who's that solid. You'd think Miles would know better than to criticize someone else's transporter room."

"Yes, I would think that. What happened? You mean Miles O'Brien, right?"

"deOrda had most of room four torn to pieces, and three was being serviced. Two was being used to transport components and cargo for the upgrades to the bridge, and room one was consequently bottlenecked because all the crew coming and going on leave and visitors to the ship were being routed through it. Miles had to wait a little while, evidently, and when he came aboard he found everyone busy or gone -- Data hadn't told the O'Briens about his transfer yet, and Geordi was up to his implants preparing for that presentation he's doing for the Academy engineering students. I guess Miles was a bit upset about a lot of things by the time he got back to the transporter. He popped off about the disorganization in the transporter room and next thing anyone knew, he and deOrda were taking swings at each other. They were still posturing, even with deLio there, when I arrived."

Jean-Luc went in the bathroom while she changed in the bedroom, listening through the open door as he stripped. "And how did you resolve it?"

"Miles was so flabbergasted by seeing me in red that it diffused the situation entirely. I spent half an hour trying to explain where everyone is and that it really isn't an alternate universe. He sends his congratulations on the wedding, by the way. Hard to believe there's actually one person left in Starfleet who hadn't heard we were together -- and he's doing a six-month stint at McKinley. Guess he's not paid attention to the fleet news net."

He tossed the second boot in the corner with his clothes and laughed suddenly. "You know, it's like we already have children. We can't have a moment's peace. Every time we turn around there's something."

"So you're saying I should view the ship as our child?"

"Well, she's not a mistress any more -- we do share the responsibility for her these days."

"Strangely enough, that analogy almost works." Deanna came in from the bedroom, her soft footfalls on the bare floor getting his attention, and he paused with his hand on the shower faucet.

It struck him all over again -- this woman, exotic and beautiful, smiled this way only for him. She crossed the room one hip at a time. Within kissing range, she stopped and ran a finger along his hip thoughtfully, her eyes roaming his body and coming to rest on his face.

"Didn't take long to get rid of the uniform, did it?" he asked.

Nose sliding along nose, she kissed him, tasted him, caressing his shoulder with fluttering fingers. "I usually undress faster when I know there's a naked man in the next room. Especially one I can play with without repercussions. Especially when he's so fuckingly-handsome I can't keep my hands off him."

"Wash my back?"

"Is that an order?"

"Definitely not. The last thing I want in the shower with me is a first officer."

"How about a wife?" She reached past him and turned on the water. Finding a compromise between hot and cold they could both tolerate took a few moments. He stood under the water, hands on the tile wall, while she took her time about washing him from head to toe.

"You're filthy -- what were you doing, rolling around in the vineyard?" she asked. "There's actually dirt going down the drain."

"I'll show you later. So what took you so long? You've only accounted for half an hour."

"You said you didn't want a first officer in the shower. I'll have to get out to tell you that."

"Forget it, then, you're right. Sorry. Did you enjoy Beverly's company?"

"I think she was a little surprised you invited them along. She asked why, since this is supposed to be a honeymoon. A question I ask myself -- is M'sieur getting tired of Madame's company already?"

He snorted, then coughed out the resulting noseful of water that got him. "Hell. I can't get anything right, can I? I'm sorry. I was so pensive I wasn't thinking. Obviously."

"If I had a problem with it, I would have said something. They would've understood. I'm only teasing. It was nice to see them, actually, I've wondered how Beverly's doing. She seems a little tense about something, every once in a while, but she's not terribly forthcoming. Maybe just worry about serving with Tom. I know that made her anxious, and that it probably will for a while to come."

"Almost as anxious as being first officer makes you?"

The sponge hit the shower floor with a squelch, and she wrapped her arms around him from behind, her cheek warm against his shoulder and her hair wiry against his back. They stood that way for a moment, water pelting them. He turned it off and then the only sound was the drip of water from their bodies, the quiet final sound of the draining of standing water, and distant sporadic bird song from the open bedroom window.

"I did try to warn you," he said at last. "It's a bigger jump than you thought, isn't it?"

"I'll be all right."

"I know you will. But it's tougher to work more closely with me in the chain of command. You could always retreat to the counselor's office, before. Sure you want to go through with it?"

"If I back out I won't get another chance. I'd appear uncertain, and that's not good. I still wonder how many people at Command think you're showing favoritism in even giving me the chance."

"The only critical question is whether you think it's favoritism. I'd hope you would have said something, however."

Her grip loosened. Jean-Luc turned around, now that she wasn't trying to break his ribs, and let her lean against him. She sniffed, the resulting puff of air tickling his chin. "I couldn't call it favoritism. Sadism, perhaps. I'm back to thinking it's all insane. I hear myself giving orders and wonder who that brass-butt woman is."

A slap and a squeeze made her squeal. "Doesn't feel like brass. I sometimes wonder if I'd have made a decent first officer. Skipped right over it, myself."

She made a muffled noise he couldn't decipher.

"What was that? You aren't going to bawl like a baby, are you?"

"Maybe I'm just an idiot thinking I could -- "

"What have you done with my wife? She has a lot more faith in herself than this."

Pulling away, she got out of the shower, handing him a towel as she took one herself. "I stuffed her in a closet. I'll let her out in a minute." She glanced at him as she toweled her hair. "Remove me from the *Enterprise* and suddenly I'm looking at it from the outside, and seeing the whole thing for the impossible, ridiculous endeavor it is. You don't see it that way, do you?"

"Cygne, I never have. You compartmentalize more than I do -- you're an officer, by any definition I choose, and a good one. My adjustment is entirely different -- my expectations of you are the same as they would be for any first officer. I merely have to stop treating you like an android and learn how to address you. You need a little time to get used to it, that's all."

Smiling, wearing the towel like a cape with her hands dangling from the corners, she kissed him on the corner of his mouth. "You're right. You usually are."

"Definitely not a brass butt," he murmured, running his hands down her back and verifying it again. "Would you like me to check the rest of your anatomy for brass fittings?"

"I like you relaxed this way. It seems to have stimulated your libido considerably."

"That's your fault. You seem to create opportunities to take off your clothes when you're not on the ship."

"Ah, so you've caught on to my positive reinforcement tactics. I've been working to get you to take more leave."

He grinned and cocked his head in feigned bemusement. "I had my misgivings about bedding a psychologist, but that would *almost* make up for them. Ma chère, you have very nice tactics." He kissed her neck as he slid a hand around the back of her thigh. Her skin soft against his lips made him forget the word games and focus instead on touching her.

Sensing the shift of attention, she backed away a step, catching his eye with hers and smiling again that secret smile, his smile, all at once lascivious and inviting and mischievous. Her damp curls were starting to dry and spring back to fullness; she tossed her head, shaking them out, and gave him a come-hither look as she threw aside the towel and went back to the bedroom.

Jean-Luc stood in a daze. A plink of water dripping in the shower behind him woke him from a momentary stupor. He'd cycled around again to the dislocated feeling of being home. With Deanna Troi, his madame. The house where his mother had spent most of her life -- the house his father and brother had left to him. The house where he had gone from child to young, reckless, galaxy-bound Jean-Luc Picard. This house, which he had spent years running away from, yet it felt so much like -- home.

He went out to his wife, finally. Odd to see her sitting on the end of the bed in the master bedroom at the chateau, naked and looking like a goddess. She watched him without apparent emotion, waiting for him to work through it.

Tossing the towel back into the bathroom, he crossed the carpeted floor and sat next to her. She let him sit in silence for a while, then put a hand on his leg. The juxtaposition of her hand, smooth and beautiful, over the pale vein-tracked skin of his thigh seemed to underscore the oddity of the two of them being together. Mismatched, yet being without her wasn't an option.

"You like the chateau? The countryside?"

"Oui."

"Bon. So when are we heading for Betazed?"

She almost choked on the laugh. "I suppose it's only fair, isn't it? Mother's been after me to attend the Feast of Alipha again. We could go then. It's six months from now."

"I'm afraid to ask what that will entail."

"No nudity. Just a few rituals, and a lot of eating, drinking, and socializing. Nothing you haven't done on any diplomatic mission you've ever undertaken." Her hand moved along his thigh, over his knee, and up again. "It will be hard for me to go. But no harder than it is for you to be here, probably."

"We keep calling ourselves the bird and fish, and here we are in the water. I look at you and. . . . It feels wrong, to see you as an alien here. Yet this is where my parents were -- where Robert lived, and where I spent my childhood -- I see this, and then I look at you. You're from a different life. A different. . . reality. One I feel more comfortable in."

"Comfortable because it's familiar. Isn't this familiar, though?"

He brought his eyes up from the floor at last. She had been watching him, head tilted, her damp hair falling in a curtain over her left shoulder. "Are you uncomfortable here?" he asked.

Her eyes acquired a distant, thoughtful look. "I wouldn't say uncomfortable. It does feel different than the holodeck version, more real, but more than that -- you feel different. I think you never completely believed the holodeck version was real, and that the reality is having an impact that the simulation never could. But though you've been unsettled often, I've enjoyed being here with you so far."

"Why will it be hard for you to go home?"

She always saddened at the thought. This time was no different. He hadn't asked why before, however, and that made her turn from him. Shifting uncomfortably, Deanna tucked her chin and closed her eyes. "What does it feel like, coming here? What makes it so generally uncomfortable? Because it isn't simply the memories, is it?"

"It's home, but it's. . . unfamiliar. I've changed more than this house has. I think of how many years have passed between visits, and I find it disturbing -- like somehow I should regress to where I left off the last time I was here. Like I don't fit here any longer. Like I'll be sitting here on the edge of this bed, and Papa will come in and scold me for being in here when I should be out helping trim the vines."

"You aren't the captain, in other words. Or you can't feel like the captain. You became the captain in space, on ships, on away missions -- but here you left when you were still very young, and came back so rarely that you never finished becoming in this context. It isn't the same with me. The opposite, in fact. I became, on Betazed, and now it's -- "

Shocked, he watched a tear wend its way down her cheek. He wiped it away with a knuckle. "You've been to Betazed every year since -- "

But she hadn't. Before the war, she'd gone once or twice a year, for conferences, on leave to visit her mother -- during the war there hadn't been opportunity for it. After, she hadn't gone once. No -- just once.

"Did it change that much, after the war?"

She leaped up, paced a small circle -- he'd rarely seen her this agitated. Stopping, she rubbed her toes along the back of her calf, back turned to him, and again he experienced the disbelief --

Her sigh was enough to shake him out of it. Raising her head, she looked over her shoulder at him. "Thank you, for distracting me from it."

"Lascivious glances are easy enough to manage. You gave me a good view."

Again, she sat down. He put an arm around her, conforming his hand to the concavity over her hip. The now-familiar phenomena of having a mass of dark curls butting up against his shoulder and chin ensued. He'd left the door wide open for her to tease him; that she didn't take it proved how upsetting the memory was.

He let her sit, held her firmly, resting his chin in her hair while he waited for her to finish mastering her internal turmoil. When she spoke again she sounded remarkably calm.

"All the things I know about my father are second-hand. I did what many young children who lose a parent do -- manufactured memories from what others describe. Mother told me stories. Grandfather told me more than Mother did. Daddy made me a recording or two, and I found them -- Mother didn't want to give them to me. The only actual memory I have of Daddy, the only image I have left, is of a trip we took to Dalena, a city south of Elnara. We were walking through a big courtyard in front of the Second House, and there was a fountain, with fantastic animals all standing on each others shoulders spitting water. I remember he held me up so I could pat the heads of some of them, and my mother took pictures and laughed. I got all wet and we sat on a bench nearby in the sun to dry, and watched the fountain. Every time I've gone back to Betazed, I always took a side trip to see it. I told Mother I was going to see friends in Elnara. It was always my private little trip to pay homage to Daddy."

She put a knuckle to her mouth, an odd gesture for her -- that of a small child, he realized. "And?"

"And now it's gone. One of the Breen ships landed in Dalena. Probably because it was the largest city in the area -- they picked the Second House as a landing site because it was the largest building around and they probably thought it was a government building. They destroyed the fountain, among other things. The last time I went home, the piles of rubble were still there. I felt like I'd lost Daddy all over again."

"I can't imagine. . . ." A fluttering motion of bird's wings outside the window caught his attention, and he watched sparrows in the branches for a moment, remembering how fond his mother had been of bird song. "But I can. I'm sorry. Hajira. . . ."

She raised her eyes to his and joined him, the mutual sorrows they bore finally burning away while the heart fire raged. His awareness of the physical returned slowly; he'd put both arms around her and brought her closer, cheek to cheek.

"Let's go for a walk. I'll show you the village."

"Really?" She sat back, pushing her hair out of her face.

"Really. We'll show those dirt-bound traditionalists Jean-Luc isn't crazy for venturing into the great unknown. One look at you and every young man in town will be heading for the nearest recruiting office, or a shuttle to Betazed."

Pleasure radiated from her, in expression and in perceptible emotion. "I seem to recall you saying something about not wanting people to know you're here."

"Cygne, when you're standing next to me, I don't think anyone knows I'm here."

Her eyes focused on his chest, as if she couldn't look in him the face any longer. "Usually the opposite is true."

"Don't start on that 'commanding presence' tangent again."

"I'm not -- if you don't believe me, you don't, but I've always looked up to you as an officer, and so do many others. And in a civilian setting women do notice you, out of uniform or not."

"I try to compliment you and -- "

"And you won't let me compliment you." Her hands began their wandering across his chest. She turned, sitting astride his lap and massaging his shoulders, bumping her nose against his forehead. "But this man I married has more appeal than he thinks, to more women than he'll ever know. I know how lucky I am."

"Lucky?"

"Don't fight with me about it. You'll lose." She bent her head down, looking him in the eye, nose to nose. "You curl my toes, Jean-Fish, I've told you that before. Why do you think I packed tight pants for you? I hope you didn't think I was entirely joking earlier in the hall. This isn't like you, being here must be doing this. . . I love you, Jean-Luc."

He closed his eyes as their lips brushed together. Her tongue flitted along his lower lip, which she took into her teeth briefly. Sliding his hands up her thighs, over her hips, up her back, he murmured, "I think I've changed my mind -- I'd rather stay right here and appreciate you myself. Isn't that what a honeymoon is for?"

"*Now* you're getting it. The dieu d'amour is here, and déesse d'lune thanks him for showing up."

He stared at the reflections of himself in her eyes, smiling. "I'm accustomed to you in context. Against this backdrop, you're new, exotic -- "

"And you're ordinary?" She leaned, using her weight to tip him back on the bed, and bumped her forehead on his chin. "Bad fish. You've got some old scripts running in your subconscious, triggered by the location."

"The bad side of sleeping with a psychologist rears its ugly head."

She rolled off and with nudges and slaps herded him up the bed, propping him up on pillows against the headboard. Settling cross-legged next to him, she reached for the table on her side of the bed -- nothing sexually-oriented, this time, just a box of chocolates he'd gotten her in Paris. She put it on the covers near her knee and caught him staring at the undersides of her thighs, and the patch of curly black hair between them.

"It's right where you left it, horny fish."

"Oui. Going to let me shave it?"

"What is this fascination you have with that? A depilatory would serve just as well, without threat of slicing me open."

"Not as much fun, though."

She rolled her eyes. "Do all men have this fetishist tendency about pubic hair?"

"I have no idea. I'd think you would be better qualified to answer that."

"You think I discussed things like that with short-termers? And not all of them have been human. I've noticed you seem to be a little more adventurous than you were in the beginning, it must be my good influence. Would you like to try the blindfold again?" Tilting her head, she licked a chocolate smudge from her thumb. "Why is this making you uncomfortable? You're perfectly capable of a straightforward conversation like this in a hotel, or on the ship."

"Damned empath."

"Oh, moody fish." She leaned forward to feed him a chocolate. "Word association. Remember that?"

"I don't feel like -- oh, all right. If it will get rid of the counselor and bring back my wife."

Her eyes fairly shouted reproach. "This is making you tired, Jean-Luc. Were you this emotionally-turbulent the last time you stayed here at the chateau?"

"Hell. You know I was."

"I mean about your father. Your family. Or did the Borg experience override everything?"

Jean-Luc held out a hand, and she moved the box to it. He took a cordial cherry and chewed it angrily.

"I suppose it did," she said, sounding weary. "We didn't discuss family issues afterward, except as related to the overall experience of the Borg, but I'm getting the feeling that we should have. Hindsight. First word -- chateau."

"House."

"Vineyard."

"Wine."

Deanna passed him another cherry. "Chocolate."

"Deebird."

"Ship."

"Captain." So far, this didn't appear difficult in the least. But that always changed. He anticipated it would, and she gazed at him a moment, knowing he did. Evidently, she decided further attempts at lulling him into an unconscious rhythm wouldn't work.

"Father."

"No."

She closed her eyes, probably to avoid giving away her reaction to it. "Daughter."

"Meribor."

"Yves."

He ran into a blank. For no reason, he found himself turning from her. Her hand on his arm stopped him short of leaving the bed.

"Jean-Luc, do you want children?"

"Yes." He did want them, almost ached for them, but for some reason --

She turned his head with firm fingers along his chin. Sympathy and reassurance, her eyes said. "I'm afraid, too, you know."

Sighing, he bowed his head as her hand dropped. "Bad fish?"

"*Normal* human emotions, from someone who thought he'd never have a family of his own. You can talk to me about this. Please? You know you can tell me anything." Her hand fluttered down his knee. "Jean-Luc, come out and talk to me. Don't hide this from yourself. Your father is gone, has been for years, and it's time for you to find closure."

The words weren't there. He shook his head and closed his eyes.

"What's the first memory you have of your father?"

At that, he did leave the bed, and dressed without looking at her. He made it downstairs before he caught himself. He'd been about to leave the house, he realized, run away again, run from this place and the accusations of a long-dead father who he'd actually hated at one point. Hated, for the grief in Maman's eyes when her son and husband fought -- for the absence of family from his Academy graduation, when all his friends had parents and siblings to hug and congratulate them, and he stood smiling like a ghoul watching it all around him.

His house, now. His home place. His madame upstairs.

Standing in the hall, he turned around slowly, looking at the walls and the floor, at the kitchen around the corner, at the front door, at the living room now mostly in shadow because the angle of the sun had changed. Four steps, and he was at the spot where he'd seen Deanna, when Q had propelled her into the past. His past. Years ago, but here in front of Maman's cabinet.

{I'm sorry, Jean.}

The apology tore at him -- it wasn't her fault. It wasn't Maman's fault, and Maman had done the same on several occasions, apologizing where she had committed no error. He stumbled forward, wanting to rid himself of the throb behind his eyes and the ache in his chest.

Deanna didn't come after him. He expected her to, but she didn't, and as he fell into the chair he'd been sitting in earlier some part of him began to unravel. Head in hands, he held his breath and meditated, or tried to.

He had no idea how long he sat there fighting his own emotions, but when he went back upstairs, he found Deanna in the same position, meditating, probably to block him out. She opened her eyes when he sat down.

"I'm sorry, chère. I don't know how to talk about it yet."

Her fingers were cool on his face. "I shouldn't have pushed you to try. I shouldn't have tried to be counselor to you again. Forgive me?"

"No." He kissed her cheek, fanned his fingers along her shoulder, stroking outward and gripping her arm. "There is nothing to forgive. If anyone would be able to help, it would be you -- it's always the burden of the patient to provide the motivation, and I wouldn't be motivated to talk to Davidson. If he could help I'd go to him instead and spare you. This is something I need to work out myself -- but I appreciate your support, and I did need the push. I trust you, Deanna, and your judgement. Having you with me is healing in itself. Thank you for being patient."

"Madame will always be here when you need her." She shifted and lay on her side in front of him. "Can I have a back rub?"

"Anything madame wants. Especially if she reciprocates."


	2. Chapter 2

"Geraint, can you help me out with this?"

Tom left Beverly with the others in the front room and responded to the plea echoing down the hall. The Glendenning home was a huge eight-bedroom two-story affair at the end of a shady lane, but the doors were standard sized and sometimes difficult to maneuver furniture through. His guess proved correct; Olivia had stuck a chair in the play room door, legs jammed on one side and the high upholstered back against the other, and was trapped in the room by it.

He freed it with a yank and carried it for her. She draped herself on his arm, heedless of his burden, and whispered, "She's perfect. You don't marry her, you're nuts."

"Leave my nuts out of this," he mumbled, and grinned at her red face. "Though they're in it often enough as it is."

"Stop it! You little brat!" Coming from Olivia, whose head barely reached his shoulder, the admonishment carried no weight. She banged her head of golden curls against his arm in retaliation.

Cat held the door for him. Heard them coming, obviously, and frowning in amused reproach. She didn't like misbehavior in front of guests, and Beverly and Chloe's friend Ted were in that category until further advisement.

"Ger's being crude again," Olivia whined. For an older sister, she whined too well.

"Looking a gift beast of burden in the mouth, Ollie?" Tom put the chair behind Beverly, who still stood in the corner with her vague discomfort that no one but him likely recognized as such, and made her sit with a gentle pull on her shoulder. He crossed his arms across the back of the chair and let her use them for a head rest.

Cat glared at him before returning to her hostess manners. Since Chloe arrived with Ted, who no one else knew, she'd gone formal. She looked glorious, her long saffron hair combed out to silky perfection over her right shoulder, shining against the cobalt pantsuit she wore. One would never suspect she was older than Tom. "Would anyone like something to drink? I've got some iced tea and there's berry punch -- we meant that for the kids but it's there. There's the replicator for anything else you'd want."

Cressida and Chloe did the fetching when it was plain everyone wanted tea. The twins looked gorgeous, and had worn matching white dresses on purpose. Both had their strawberry-blond hair up in a bun to remove that telltale aspect -- Chloe's hair was longer, Cressie had said. They were hazing Ted by playing the twins game. Ted looked visibly relieved as they left him sitting alone on the couch. Poor fellow, being an attorney hadn't prepared him for the Glendenning clan. Starfleet taught one to expect the unexpected; Beverly seemed to be holding up well.

The kids were yelling in the yard, their shouts coming through the open window with the breeze. Cat's son, Ollie's daughter, and Chloe's son were playing yard darts, as they'd been before breakfast when Beverly and Tom had come down the road from their visit to the top of Lannon Peak. Mark and Bronson had leaped on Tom like Klingons into battle, yelling, and once he'd shaken them off Briona had leaped up for a hug herself. Introducing Beverly to them had an immediate effect; all three had gone cold sober and big-eyed, which had given Beverly pause.

"Bronson's gotten big enough for football," Tom commented lazily, knowing it would set off sparks in Cat's hazel eyes.

"He's not interested." Cat sank into the armchair, her usual spot. The queen in her throne.

"Maybe Ted and I should toss a ball around with him and Mark, and see if that's your notion or his."

"Geraint, shut up." Ollie was still miffed about his momentary crudity. "Just because you were interested in it doesn't mean everyone else is."

"That's what I keep telling you about dancing, but still your universe revolves around it." Tom turned to the only other male in the room. "Do you dance, Ted?"

"Not so well on the floor as in the courtroom. What do you do, Geraint? Chloe tells me you're in Starfleet."

"I'm captain of the *Venture,* about to set sail for the stars. Commission ceremony is in a few days. I can give you clearance if you'd like to come."

Unlike Tom's sisters, Ted was duly impressed by this. He turned wide brown eyes on Tom, chin dropped, and sat up a little straighter. "You're a starship captain?"

"Have been for quite some time. Beverly's my new chief medical officer."

"Isn't *Venture* the new Sovereign-class I've heard about in the news? I thought the name was coincidence. You're Tom Glendenning?"

"I took Dad's name when I joined Starfleet."

Ted blinked. "Wow. So you were on the *Phoenix,* in that action on the Neutral Zone. With the *Enterprise* and all those other ships. Do you know other captains well?" The news net had gotten the facts of the matter after its conclusion, and only the surface details, of course.

"Depends on which ones you mean. I've met a number of them over the years."

"Shelby? Picard?"

Tom glanced down at Beverly. She covered her mouth to hide a grin. "Sure, I know them. Beverly served with Picard aboard the *Enterprise* for years, she's good friends with him."

"Amazing. Why didn't anyone tell me you were Captain Glendenning? And you know Picard."

"So?" Ollie said. "He's been a captain for years, I'm sure he knows lots of officers."

Ted stared at her, then at Cat. "You really don't pay attention to the news. I can't believe you don't realize -- the *Enterprise* saved us from the Borg, and you didn't even notice? The fleet saved us from war with the Romulans, and you pay no attention? He's your brother, for God's sake, and he's out there in life or death situations all these years, and you don't even know what he does?"

"We know," Cat said patiently. "What's taking those -- " A distant crash interrupted. Cat leaped up and ran to find out what was going on.

"It's no big deal, Ted. They don't know anything about space. Never been there." Tom smiled at the flustered attorney. "No need to defend me. They don't understand. I don't expect them to."

"I understand just fine," Ollie said. "You have a ship and a crew, and you fly around the galaxy and meet aliens and sometimes get into fights with them."

"That's about right," Beverly said. Ollie looked at her with a cute frown.

"But you laugh."

"It's just never that simple." Sitting up on the edge of her chair, Beverly fingered her bracelet absently. "I wish it were. I'd have seen less blood and fewer fatalities."

"What kind of law do you practice, Ted?" Tom asked, hoping to avoid another serious discussion that would put Beverly, and probably everyone else, in a gloomy mood.

It worked. Ted cooperated, and Cat returned, squabbling with the twins at first about Chloe's clumsiness that had broken something but joining the conversation in progress as Cressie handed out beverages. Beverly said little and listened, completely unlike her openness over breakfast. Gone were the happy exchanges with Cat. Tom interjected only to add fuel to innocuous topics when the discussion seemed to wane, and a couple of hours passed peacefully enough.

Tom gleaned more information as they went along about Chloe's current state -- she'd divorced three months before, amiably, from Bronson's father. Ted was her first attempt at a relationship since. Too soon, Tom thought, noting the same disapproval in Cat's eyes when Chloe clung to Ted's arm. Chloe tended to fall too fast and lose herself in relationships.

Then again, Cat had said the same thing about him, more than once. In at least one instance she'd been correct. And judging from the vibes, she was thinking the same about Beverly. She'd greeted Bev like the old friend she was, but after the initial reminiscing and laughing about old times, Cat's manner had cooled considerably.

Mark, Cat's twelve-year-old, came inside, juggling a baseball. "Uncle Ger, want to play baseball with us?"

Beverly looked up at Tom with an appeal in her eyes for him not to abandon her. He drew a middle ground carefully. "Only if Beverly does."

She gaped a moment, then shrugged. "Sure. Why not?"

Tom grinned at the surprise on his sisters' faces as they left the room. He put an arm around Beverly and kissed her cheek, making Mark grimace and run ahead of them out the open front door, after which Tom ventured a more intimate kiss, his arms arranging her into dancing stance almost on their own. He waltzed her around in a circle in the foyer beneath the watchful eye of a family portrait that included his grandmother. When he let her go again, she glanced at the picture.

"Is that you?" She pointed at a little boy in the front row, standing between cherubic twin blond girls.

"Gee, wonder what led you to that conclusion? The fact that everyone else in the picture is female, maybe?"

"It's the dimples."

As they crossed the porch and thumped down the creaking wood steps, he laughed out loud with her, catching her in his arm and reaching out with his other hand to catch the baseball Mark pitched at them.

They played three flies up, Beverly taking her turn like a good sport but missing more often than hitting until she got frustrated enough to simply pitch the ball. Tom deduced after three games that she'd had her fill of it, her demeanor showing it quite clearly. He gave the ball a whack that sent it flying over the lilac bushes in the corner of the yard out into the road.

"Aw, Uncle Ger," Bronson shouted, stomping a foot, "what'd you do that for?"

Mark ran and hurdled the low fence, followed by Briona, her mouse-brown curls bobbing as she landed and raced to overtake the older boy. At eight she looked boyish herself. Tom handed Bronson the bat, cuffed his shoulder, and headed for the house, collecting Beverly's hand on the way.

"Been a while since I had a little boy to play with," she said.

Tom stopped on the top porch step to look at her. The joke about playing with him only that morning died on his lips -- it hadn't been what she meant. A grimy smear under one eye showed where she'd wiped her face with a knuckle of a hand used to catch a baseball.

"Verly," he murmured.

"I just need a bathroom. My hands are filthy."

He told her how to get there and leaned against the porch rail, ignoring the possibility of breaking the old boards. The kids' shouts distracted him from watching her walk down the hall.

Someone was walking up the street along the wire fence. A very familiar someone.

"Shit," he muttered.

Bronson joined Mark and Briona in welcoming the newcomer. She smiled fondly at them.

"Shit." Tom hurried inside. Cat, coming out to see what the kids were shouting about, almost ran into him. "Thanks a lot, Cat, for telling me Tyra was going to come," he exclaimed point-blank into her face.

"Geraint -- "

"Spare me. I'm taking Beverly for a walk. We might come back, or we might just go elsewhere."

"But I didn't know," Cat exclaimed. "One of the twins must have mentioned you were going to be here."

"You just tell Tyra to take me off her list for good. And pass along my *appreciation* to whichever of the twins opened her big mouth."

He left her staring at him, still holding the living room door open. The downstairs bathroom door opened as he reached it. Beverly took one look at his face and fell in step behind him. Tyra's exclamation of happy greetings to Cat sounded loud in his ears as the back door slammed shut in their wake.

Beverly grabbed his hand and hauled on it, stopping him at the foot of the back steps. "Tom," she exclaimed, demanding an explanation.

"Verly, damn -- I'm sorry. Let's go somewhere else. You name it, we'll go there. San Francisco, Buenos Aires -- "

"Who is it?" She waited with earnest eyes.

"Tyra Goveretzky. She and I knew each other, very well. She and Cat and the twins got to know each other well enough that long after. . . they still see her, she lives in Portland. She was the only other woman I've ever brought home with me. They thought I'd marry her. Chloe and Cat still tease me sometimes that I should just go through with it. Tyra's never hooked up with anyone since, not long-term. She keeps expecting me to change my mind."

"That's why the kids stared at me like that, when we showed up and you introduced me?" She crossed her arms tightly. "You're saying, you were close to her, almost to the point of matrimony -- yet you never mentioned her when I asked you -- "

"She's got nothing to do with you and me, I don't want to dredge up old angst and inflict it on you."

"Well, that's your right, I guess. I suppose I thought that because I shared so much of my own -- "

"It's not that, Verly. Don't be hurt by this. Please, it's not that I wasn't going to tell you at all -- Tyra is a sore subject with me. I made some horrible mistakes with her, and her behavior only made it worse. I don't know why she's here. Let's just leave, forget the family get-together -- "

"Which came together solely because you came home," she exclaimed. "Why is it that we can talk about my old flames, but we can't discuss yours? Why do we have to abandon this simply because an old girlfriend of yours shows up? Just ask her to leave. Or ignore her. Or introduce me to her and -- "

"Putting you in the same room with her is like expecting anti-matter and matter to shake hands peaceably. She's not going to be nice. I can already tell you that."

"Okay, so I don't get the chance to try? How do you know how she'll be? You get along with all my friends including Jean-Luc, yet the minute one of your old girlfriends walks in, we have to tuck our tails and run? I came to meet your sisters and get to know them. How am I supposed to get to know anyone if we leave?" She gave him that stubborn, shooting-ice-daggers glare, and he knew he'd just lost the battle.

Yes, Jean-Luc, you were right, he thought. Surprise. First she'd been reticent, now she wanted to stay in spite of an ex-girlfriend.

Tom drew himself up, brushed off his shirt. "All right. If it's what you want, Beverly, I'll introduce you to Tyra. Just don't expect her to be sincerely friendly."

~^~^~^~^~^~

"Do I have to wear the blindfold?"

"Yes, you do. Careful where you step."

"I wanted Marie to stay and talk a while longer. You shooed her off, didn't you, Jean?"

"I wanted to come out before sunset. Marie can come back tomorrow, or the next day. Okay, stop. Just stand there a moment."

Jean-Luc left her standing beneath the tree's broad branches and put the bag at the foot of the trunk between two gnarled roots. Leaning against the bark, he held up the imager.

"Pull it off, and look up."

She removed the sash and looked, and as she gaped up at the branches he took several shots of her, then another as she approached, just to capture that look on her face, the joy and affection. She took the imager from him and put it down, then wrapped her arms around his neck.

"It's a better treehouse than the one I had before."

"I'll bet. That's why you were so dirty, you've been out here nailing together boards -- did you do this just for me?"

"For the moment. I expect Yves will add to it, someday, when he's old enough."

"Since he hasn't even been conceived, that'll be a while."

"Let's see if we can't make progress toward that end. Up you go, madame."

He gave her rear a push unnecessarily as she climbed, making her giggle, and tossed up the bag. She was sitting on her knees looking at the smooth boards, fingering the blanket he'd left there, when he climbed up after.

"So sweet of you," she murmured. "I'm surprised you didn't bring a jug of wine and loaf of bread."

"Too cliche. I brought chocolate and champagne, and thou. Now, that's Deebird."

She laughed, running her fingers through her curls and tossing them back over her shoulders. "I see now why you wanted me in this dress. Am I French peasant enough?"

"It has nothing to do with what you resemble, ma chère, you're simply delicious that way, that's all."

They spread the blanket across the boards. She kept feeling around with her fingers, even bounced a little, making the branch sway slightly.

"Questioning my ability? I made sure I hammered in all the nails, Dee. And if you really want to test how sturdy it is. . . ." He grabbed her foot. Laughing, she kicked and shoved at him half-heartedly. He wrestled his way over her and pinned her down.

"Jean-Luc Picard," she murmured against his lips. "You get right down to business, don't you?"

"Would you rather have some chocolate first?"

She stared up at him as if the suggestion had caught her by surprise. For a moment he tried to read whatever she felt in her black eyes. She trailed the backs of her fingers down the side of his face, tilting her head slightly, and he realized that this was one of her attempts to memorize the moment. Finally a smile broke through.

"No," she whispered. "I want to make you call my name."

Just the feel of her beneath his had been stimulating enough. The husky voice, the smile, and her hands at the back of his neck, pulling him down for a melding of mouths, stoked the flames. Her body called to him; they'd spent that last hour before Marie's arrival simply lying together with slow caresses and quiet conversation, taking the time to be comfortably intimate without interruption, and this seemed a continuation of that. Here was the counterpoint to the ache he felt in her absence. As acutely as he'd missed her when he'd been off ship and far away, now he felt her presence, her warmth, and craved it no less.

He pushed himself up and leaned on one arm. She laughed at the way he fumbled at her underwear and threw her skirt up, bunching it around her waist, but her giggling turned to a moan with the insertion of a finger.

"You first," he said, pulling it out slowly.

"God, I -- oh. . . ." Another moan. Squirming under the patient attention of his hand, she tried to sit up, move closer, but he blocked her attempts and finally lay down on her to keep her still, watching her eyes in the waning sunlight. Two fingers, and she tightened around them, moaning. Her hands gripped his arms until he was sure there'd be bruises; one of her heels hit the boards, making a muffled thud on the blanket.

"Jean," she gasped.

"What was that?"

Her body tensed, her head came off the blanket, and her thumbs dug into his biceps. "Jean-Luc!" she cried. "Please. . . ."

"Stop?"

"NO!" The lower half of her body left the blanket, pushing him upward. She smelled like sex, abundant proof of her arousal trickling into his palm. Her thigh pushed into his groin. She fell back and her hands darted from his arms to the temporary space between them, yanking at the waistband. He let her get the pants a few inches down his hips and pinned her hands between their bodies.

"JEAN-LUC!"

"Something wrong, Dee?" He thought he spoke normally, though it was hard to tell -- his ears were still ringing from her frustrated shout. Letting her support his weight for a moment, he shoved his pants down, her renewed efforts helping him along.

And suddenly her hands and feet hit the boards, and rolled them over completely. Aware of the precariousness of their position, he threw his arms out --

"Another half a meter -- "

"I know. I've gotten better at calculating distances, don't you think?" Her mouth occupied his while she slowly impaled herself on him, then she sat up. The sunset, well under way, cast red highlights in her eyes, making them appear to have actual flames in them in addition to the smoldering of heart fire. She began working at his jacket and shirt, running her hands up his abdomen --

The chirp of a communicator made both of them sag. Sighing, Jean-Luc felt in his jacket pocket and took the badge out. "Yes, deLio."

"Sorry, sir, but there's been an accident. We have several crew in sickbay as a result of a damaged plasma conduit."

"We'll be beaming up shortly. Stand by for my signal."

Deanna climbed off him and felt her way toward the trunk. "She's *your* daughter."

"So something goes wrong with the ship, she's all mine -- but I can order you to take care of it."

"Just pull up your pants and hurry up -- we take too long and they'll figure out what we were doing."

"It's our damn honeymoon, they *know* what we're probably doing."

They hurried through the woods, moving faster now that they knew the way better, reached the back door at a run, and jogged upstairs.

"A little more involved than getting to quarters," she huffed, opening a dresser drawer for the uniforms they'd brought. She raced into the bathroom, which reminded him that he needed to wash his hands.

In just under ten minutes, they faced each other in uniform, her final task pulling her hair into a braid and winding it on the back of her head.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

She smiled sadly. "It will only take a little while, I hope. Do you want sickbay or the scene of the accident?"

"Divide and conquer? I'll go to engineering. Find out if this was an accident of omission or commission. I can only imagine someone made a mistake -- Geordi wouldn't allow maintenance to get that slipshod."

He signaled deLio. The transporter beam snatched them seconds later, and they were facing deOrda in transporter room one. As they left the room she veered left when he went right, each of them focused on their objective. In the lift, he sighed and looked at the floor, turning his wedding band on his finger with his thumb. Then he tugged his uniform straight, waited the last few moments of the journey at attention, and strode out of the lift.

Engineering was alive with activity, as he'd guessed it would be. Geordi slowed down long enough to explain that a lieutenant and two ensigns had been performing routine checks on a power transfer conduit and someone had apparently lost control of a tool. People hurrying in the warp reaction chamber area in environmental suits and the offline main engine core indicated repair was already under way.

"We should be finished in a few hours. Since we're in no hurry, we'll take the opportunity to be thorough and go through the system from one end to the other," Geordi said.

"So it's under control now."

"Yes, sir, the damage wasn't so significant to the ship as it was to the people." Geordi paused. "By the way, sir, the injuries? Lieutenant Batris and Ensigns Priteri and Greenman were the ones hurt in the accident."

He hesitated a few seconds. "Thank you, Commander. I'll leave you to your work and expect a full report of the repairs when I return from leave."

"You'll have it. Sorry it interrupted. How's France?"

"Quiet. Definitely no ensigns or plasma there. What about your presentation?"

Geordi shook his head. "This may put a kink in things. Might postpone it a day if they'll let me. I still have some prep work to do."

"Break a leg. Bring me back a recording. I'd like to hear it." Jean-Luc turned and left engineering.

Sickbay was in an uproar as well. He hesitated just inside, glancing back and forth. Deanna came to him from one of the biobeds.

"Priteri doesn't look too good. The other two were not so badly burned. As it turns out, from what little I've been able to deduce, Natalia was the one holding the tool that caused the accident."

Jean-Luc sighed. "I'm sorry to hear that. What prognosis are they giving Priteri?"

"No one will tell me. They put me off twice now. Usually that means it's so bad they don't want to speculate yet."

He followed her to one of the beds. Batris looked terrible, raw from navel to scalp -- plasma burns did that to the human body. He'd been sedated -- good for him, it would spare him a lot of pain. Jean-Luc averted his eyes to the floor, stepping out of the way of one of the medics. Though he'd seen a lot of gore over the years, the sight of such burns combined with the smell of plasma-seared flesh was enough to turn his stomach.

Deanna's touch on his sleeve brought his head up. {Natalia isn't that bad, Jean-Luc. They're almost finished with her.}

Following her reluctantly, he saw that Natalia already sat up, red-faced from regeneration of tissue and pulling the loose blue smock around herself self-consciously. She met his gaze and turned away at once. Deanna put her hands behind her back and waited while one of the medical personnel checked Natalia's arm, then left her with a glance at the two waiting officers.

"Ensign, are you all right?" Jean-Luc asked.

"I'll be okay, they said. I feel like I've got acid for blood in my face and shoulders, but relatively speaking I'm not in much pain." She spoke too low, almost whispering, making them step closer to hear.

"Are you up to telling us about it?" Deanna put a hand on her knee, still clad in the black uniform pants, and therefore most likely a safe place to touch her. Her right arm looked as red as her face.

Natalia winced as she shrugged uncomfortably. "Um. It was tight, in the jeffries tube. I had one of the panels open, and Batris was behind me, Priteri in front of me, and Batris jostled my elbow. By accident. The end of the probe I was taking readings with jammed up against the relays in front of me, and the -- "

A scuffle of activity at the far biobed, the one with Priteri on it, got her attention. She watched open-mouthed as Mengis and three others worked quickly, the CMO giving clipped orders over the alarms going off. One by one the alarms stopped, and finally the medics lost some of the tension, one of the nurses going so far as to sigh and back away a few paces.

"Ensign," Jean-Luc said quietly.

Natalia closed her eyes, sucked in her upper lip, and one of her feet swung, almost striking Deanna's leg. "Sir, if she dies, there'll be an investigation, won't there? Maybe even a court-martial?"

"You're making a premature assumption," Jean-Luc said.

"Sir, please," she whispered. "I need to know."

"Finish telling us what happened," Deanna said, not using an inviting counselor voice, but issuing an order.

"I was taking readings of the relays and the plasma flow," she mumbled, staring at the floor. "Priteri was teasing Batris about his hair. He told her to knock it off. She laughed at him and started to tell me about something she'd done at a party, and leaned close, and I realized she was out of it -- she had a chemical smell on her breath. She'd been at some party dirtside prior to going on shift. Her leave ended today. It's not like her at all, sir, she's never done anything like it before. I've never seen her be anything but professional." Natalia paused to fight for control, regained it, and continued. This was the truth; her prior account had been a little too casual, Jean-Luc realized, and this version she delivered with solemn weariness.

"I told Batris I could smell something on her breath and he ordered her out of the tube. Told her to go to sickbay for God's sake. She'd been late as it was, she said, and didn't want to be any later, so she hadn't gone before shift. She didn't believe she was that bad. He reached around me and tried to drag her out. She lashed out with her foot at him, hung on to me, practically choked me -- I lost control of my other arm while trying to hold her off me, trying to prop myself up -- my hand and the probe must've slid into the panel hard enough to cause a short, or. . . I don't know what happened to it. Just that the next thing I knew, there was a plume of plasma streaming out at a weird angle, and Batris was dragging me backward, and Priteri was screaming -- then there was the most horrible smell, and I realized it was her flesh burning, and then I was in pain -- Batris shoved me out of the way and went back for her. By that time, people were coming up the tube to help."

"What made you decide to tell us the truth?" Deanna asked.

Natalia hung her head. "I just couldn't lie about it. Not to you. Not to the captain. I wanted it to be nothing but a malfunction, but it wasn't -- I don't want to be on another witness stand. I can't do that again."

Her whisper turned desperate; the fear added to the stress had her on the verge of tears. Jean-Luc understood what she meant -- as a child she'd been victim of a sexual assault, and called upon to be a witness in the trial. She had, according to Deanna, developed a hatred for being questioned, and probably had a lot of negative emotions associated with the thought of being in a courtroom.

"There will be an investigation, Natalia," Jean-Luc said, "but a court-martial isn't likely. Priteri's lack of responsibility and poor behavior resulted in injury, but so far no fatality. I don't believe you need to fear repercussions -- though you would have had reason to fear, when Batris' account differed from your intended version of what took place."

Her eyes came open. She hadn't thought of that -- she'd been acting out of panic. Then she settled into a pained acceptance of it, staring at the floor. "It was like being in hell," she murmured. "The burning -- "

"Ensign, you're due to go on leave after shift, aren't you?" Deanna asked. "When they release you from sickbay, what do you plan to do?"

"You mean in case someone needs to question me again? I was supposed to go to Mom's."

"But you don't want to go," Deanna said. This was the counselor, or the friendly-to-the-crew first officer -- they were similar.

"Mom will just use this as another reason I should quit. Another reason to pick a different career, something *safe.* I don't suppose I could be confined to quarters or something, just to have a good night's sleep? As good as I'll get, anyway. Kasey's snoring, or my mom's lecturing -- I can sleep through Kasey."

"I think you should be honest with your mother as you were with us, don't you?" Deanna asked.

Natalia smiled unexpectedly. Weary, in pain, frightened, but catching her second wind. "I guess the counseling dies hard, doesn't it, sir? I know you're right. It doesn't make it easier. I wish Mom could take a few lessons from your mother. At least your mother didn't make me feel like damaged goods, or accuse me of being delusional in thinking I could make it in Starfleet."

Deanna exchanged glances with Jean-Luc, both of them suppressing a reaction to that. "She's not your mother. Mother saves her lectures for me, Natalia."

Mengis came over, edging between Jean-Luc and Deanna. He ran a sensor over Natalia and checked his readouts. "You can go, as long as you get plenty of rest and remember your skin will be sensitive for about three days. Avoid extended periods in the sun or wear sunscreen, if you're going on leave. Even a slight burn would be painful."

"How's Priteri? Batris?" Natalia asked anxiously.

"Batris will be fine, though we're keeping him overnight. Priteri will be here for a few days and require reconstructive surgery. I suggest you go change, Ensign."

They backed away to let her get down, and Natalia headed for a changing room at the back of sickbay. Mengis turned to Jean-Luc. "Ensign Priteri's burns were severe. The skin of her torso, arms and head was completely burned away, and the plasma had begun to eat into muscle tissue and bone. Recovery will be complete, but I'd like to do it gradually, and let the tissue heal on its own as much as possible."

"Have you done a blood panel?" Deanna asked. The doctor paused, obviously aware of why she'd ask such a question and wondering how she knew.

"Yes. Chemical compounds in her bloodstream would seem to indicate she had ingested some sort of drug. Further analysis will be necessary to determine what it was; the substances seem to be in the process of breaking down and dissipating. We were more concerned about stabilizing her than determining the nature of the substance. Its presence in her system was not threatening her life; the burns were."

"I'd like to speak to Ensign Priteri when you deem her fit to answer questions regarding the accident. Can you predict when that might be?" Jean-Luc asked.

"As extensive as the damage is, I'd say two, perhaps three days. It depends upon her response to treatment and presupposes that there are no complications." Mengis' cold green eyes slid from Jean-Luc to Deanna.

"Contact myself or Commander Troi when it becomes possible. I'd also like to speak to Lieutenant Batris. I assume he will be recovered enough to do so sooner?"

"Yes, he'll be discharged in the morning, given a day of medical leave, and probably return to duty day after tomorrow."

"I'll come in the morning to talk to him, Captain," Deanna said. "It shouldn't take long. I'll give him instructions at that time and get an update on Priteri's condition."

"If there's nothing further?" Mengis asked. He returned to Priteri's side when Jean-Luc nodded dismissal.

Deanna stepped closer and kept her voice down. "Are we canceling our leave?"

Jean-Luc looked at Batris, still receiving the attention of two medics, and Priteri, under the CMO's watchful gaze, and shook his head. "Geordi has things in hand. The damage wasn't significant. The injuries were dire, but our presence makes no difference in how they heal. Mengis will contact us when Priteri's ready to talk, you're handling Batris in the morning. . . . It may mean less leave than we'd planned, but we work with what we're given. Unless the first officer sees it differently?"

"No, sir, I don't -- though I think I'll check in on a more regular basis. And I'm a little worried about Natalia. Though that's the worry for someone I think of as a friend more than anything else."

Jean-Luc grunted, crossing his arms. "She doesn't want to go home, and I can certainly empathize with that feeling. I had enough of that sort of trouble from my father. She probably feels responsible for what happened into the bargain."

"How perceptive," Deanna said, smiling. "That empath wife of yours must be rubbing off on you."

"Stop that -- Data." He scowled at her use of the android's old joke, brushing it aside with a dismissive flick of his fingers. "I was only thinking of the role she played in it. Even if she didn't instigate it, her hand and the tool she held were the cause of the leak. If she goes home, she'll only spend her leave defending her career while feeling guilt for the accident -- and then there's the dinner tomorrow. If -- what is it now?"

"You're being very concerned over an ensign's feelings."

Heaving a great sigh, he straightened his uniform. "I suppose so, but she's not just any ensign, she's Walker's niece. And you're fond of her, and I've somehow managed to let her work her foot past the curtain as well. You keep saying I've felt paternal about her -- maybe that's a little truer than I like to pretend."

"She's taking too long to change clothes," Deanna said. "I can guess why. She doesn't want you to see her crying."

"This isn't going to be one of those things I can order her out of, is it?"

"No, the blustering wouldn't go over well, at this point. But you want to help her." He couldn't argue with her -- she was reading him and responding directly, something she only did when she sensed she could save time and energy by it. If he hedged, the subject would be revisited later. Easier to follow her lead.

"I don't know how to help without it coming across as favoritism. I don't want her to think of it as such, nor do I want to set her apart from the rest of the crew by singling her out. I've already done too much of that after that debacle with your mother. But I keep thinking of Walker and how much he'd like her, if he were still alive. Then of Maman -- without her acceptance of my choices, however far from home they took me, I'd have cut myself off completely from home and family. Natalia's in the opposite situation, the parent who would have supported her died first, and she has no one who could encourage her. Knowing her dislike for counselors in general and the fact that she's recently lost the only one she really trusted to a sideways promotion across the bridge, I can see she'll have no emotional support."

Deanna pondered, head bowed, tapping her fingers on the edge of the biobed. "What would you do, if you didn't feel constricted by rank?"

"I have no idea. Without the rank, I wouldn't know how to relate to her."

"Yes, you would. The same way you've related to her before, in those brief moments when you let her behind the wizard's curtain."

She waited, eyes on his, confident that he'd figure out the answer for himself. Jean-Luc exhaled impatiently. "You're going to tell me she reminds me of Meribor."

"Doesn't she?"

"I'm not her father. I can't pretend to be."

"Yet you experience a paternal reaction to her that's absent when you deal with other crew, like Priteri or Batris." She nodded toward the wounded. "She means something to you -- she reminds you of yourself, to a degree. She reminds you of the daughter you had on Kataan, and she's young enough and shows a certain vulnerability that you feel some responsibility to protect her. She's the niece of an old friend, and you believe your friend would have possibly felt the same way toward her. Are you going to go back on leave and be able to stop thinking about her?"

Jean-Luc almost made the claim, but stopped himself short. This was the crux of it, no doubt. The reason she'd chosen direct confrontation. "Damned empath," he growled. "What's she doing? The same?"

"She's been fighting with herself. Trying to stop remembering it, probably, and trying not to cry."

"There's nothing I can do. You, maybe, you were her counselor. And you're much better at comforting people -- damn. So much for watching the stars with my wife."

"I'm not her counselor any more. But maybe. . . maybe you're right, and we're going about this the wrong way."

He looked up at her sharply. "How so?"

"Well, you're worried about her and don't know what to do. I know what I would do, if she were a friend's daughter. Setting aside being first officer, or counselor, or any official role, if I were approaching this on the level of friendship -- I'd just have Natalia come stay with me. If we were orbiting Betazed I'd take her off the ship for the change of venue, so she could gain that distance from it, and give her somewhere other than her mother's house to rest, even if it's just for a night. Sometimes that's all it takes to gain perspective. I'd take her to Mother's and we'd all curl up with some oskoid and have a good gossip session. And then she'd get a good night's sleep, and be better able to confront it tomorrow."

"I don't think -- "

"Oh, I'm not suggesting you do anything, don't worry. I'm saying that maybe I should. Maybe I should invite her to my chateau for the night, and leave my husband out of it as much as possible. Though there is a difference between our time zone and ship's time, I could let her sleep until I came up to talk to Batris, and you could have minimal contact with her -- go riding or call Lewis while she's eating breakfast."

"First officers don't normally do such things any more than captains do."

"I'd make the same offer to Beverly, or Malia, or any other of my female friends, if any of them happened to need time away and the opportunity presented itself. Women do that sort of thing for each other. I did it for Chandra once when she had a fight with the man she now has children with."

"Women invite other women along on their honeymoon just because they're upset?"

Crossing her arms, she glared at him. "Double standard?"

Jean-Luc gaped a moment. "That was different. They didn't spend the night. We fed them lunch and -- I'm going to lose this, aren't I?"

"Between our Sovereign-class child and your friendliness, it's been an adventure of a honeymoon anyway. What will one more interruption matter?"

"Fine. I'm going back to engineering then beaming down. I assume you'll be along shortly, and that our interrupted plans will remain so until further notice?"

"I don't have to hold her hand, you know, and -- " She glanced around as if remembering where they were. "We'll see what we can do. The night's still young, after all. . . and the tree is out of earshot of the house," she whispered, eyes alight with mischief.

"Thank you, Commander," he exclaimed officiously, turning on his heel and marching out of sickbay. He mused his way to the nearest lift and headed for engineering.

Geordi looked up from the main console and approached. "How are they?"

"No fatalities, though Priteri's quite serious. Any conclusions?"

"Open and shut, actually." Bringing up a diagram on a display, he pointed out where the damage had occurred. "A sensor wand jammed through a panel while turned on, causing enough of a power surge that it shorted the panel after a random sequence of keys were pressed. The computer logged it -- looks like someone put their weight into it, their hand slid across the panel, some of the commands entered locked the conduit by activating an emergency force field, then the person tried to push himself up and the end of the wand pierced the panel. The pressure of the buildup vented into the tube -- had to go somewhere. There were two other leaks in other tubes. After the initial burst of plasma, the computer set off alarms. We shut down the core at that point, or we'd have three fatalities on our hands."

"That's consistent with what I've found out so far. Thank you, Geordi, I'll expect the full report promptly. Dr. Mengis will probably contact you with details, but it looks like Priteri's out for an extended period and Batris will be out for a day. Dee will be back up in the morning to talk to Batris. We've already discussed it with Greenman. We'll know more after we've spoken to the other two involved. Good night again."

Jean-Luc wondered as he left why the last expression on Geordi's face was a slightly-puzzled, amused smile. He beamed down, materialized on the lawn in front of the house and stood for a moment contemplating the stars, then went inside to change. Comfortable grey pants, a loose black pullover, and shoes -- he glanced out the window at the sky through the shifting leaves. The top of the old oak tree wasn't visible from there, just a lot of smaller trees, mostly poplars. Smiling, he went downstairs.

He put some music on and made tea the old-fashioned way, and as the kettle began to whistle and the Vienna Symphony played Handel the way it should be, the front door banged open. The sound of a bag being dropped in the hall, and then Deanna murmuring something unintelligible. Then, "Jean-Luc?"

Removing the brass kettle from the heat and turning off the stove, he went around to answer the summons. Natalia looked as she might if wandering in a dream world. Had they given her too much painkiller?

"Looks like you've brought in a stray," he said. "Do stray ensigns like tea?"

"Sir?" She blinked at him, rendered slightly cross-eyed by the prospect. Deanna gave her a push and followed her into the kitchen. When Natalia was seated at the table, Deanna looked askance at him.

{Jean?}

{In for a penny, in for a pound. We'll put her in Rene's room.}

Deanna smiled and turned away to go upstairs.

When he put a cup in front of her, Natalia jumped, disturbed from her deep dark musings. Her brown eyes were slightly bloodshot, and glanced off his face as if looking at him directly might hurt. "Thank you."

"It's not berry cobbler, but it'll help, I think. At least, my mother seemed to think tea cured what ailed you."

Unfortunately mentioning the famed cobbler only made her wilt, probably reminding her of the necessity of facing her mother. She picked up her cup and sipped, her shoulders sagging.

Jean-Luc sat at the head of the table, picked up the padd Deanna had left there earlier, and went through the reports she'd been reviewing. While he read, Deanna returned, got herself tea, and sat across from Natalia. She wore the dress she'd had on earlier with a housecoat over it. Closing her eyes, she meditated for a bit. The rolling strains of the symphony filled the house, dwindled again, and became a murmuring of strings and woodwinds.

"My father would have liked this house," Deanna said at length.

Jean-Luc looked up at her. She smiled at him as she raised her cup to her lips. She seemed to have an agenda, probably something to do with Natalia. "He would? You said you didn't remember much about him."

"I know of him, second-hand. I also remember bits and pieces about his friends, like when he'd had the Millers over and we all sat around the dinner table laughing and talking. Wyatt chased me and tickled me. I gave him a black eye."

Jean-Luc laughed at that, startling Natalia a little. "Little ruffian."

"I didn't mean to. He was tickling, I was rolling around kicking, and my foot hit him in the face." She shrugged, one-shouldered. "We didn't see the Millers much after Daddy died. They are no longer a matter of consequence."

"Matter of. . . you're quoting something, aren't you?" Her tone seemed to indicate it.

"The Little Prince. You remember? The one about the little boy who wanders the cosmos asking questions. He talks to a businessman at one point, whose only concern is matters of consequence -- but of course, one's definition of the term makes all the difference."

"It's been years since I read that. It was one of those books Maman favored, she read it to me as a child, and read it to her sister's children when they visited. I seem to recall that part of the story had something to do with the stars."

"The businessman claimed to own the stars. He spent all his time counting them, writing them down, and putting the paper away in a safe in the bank. The little prince couldn't understand why it was so important -- you cannot pluck the stars from the heavens, he said. If you own a flower, you can pick it, but the stars cannot be touched. You can water the flower, be of some use to it, but you are of no use to the stars. So why is it such a matter of consequence to claim to own the stars?"

The story was coming back slowly. Jean-Luc sipped cooling tea. "I remember most the part where the fox teaches him the meaning of friendship. Except he refers to it as 'being tamed.' Maman used the same term often."

"You become responsible for someone you have tamed," Deanna said. "Being tamed makes you unique, establishes ties. Allowing someone to tame you ties you to them. For instance, out of all the ensigns wandering the halls of our ship, you only tease one of them."

"She started it. I'm not used to being ogled. Teasing seemed the most harmless of the responses I could make."

Deanna glanced at Natalia, eyes full of mischief. "Forgive him, he'll realize what he's doing after he comes down off the Earl Grey-induced high he's on. He persistently has these delusions that he's being ogled."

Natalia giggled. Spinning her cup slowly, she switched hands, using her left to pick it up this time, probably because her right hurt. "But he *is* kinda good-looking, for an old guy. Just ask Ensign Billings."

Groaning, Jean-Luc ran a hand over his head. "You just brought her home with you to do this to me, didn't you?"

In the distance, Forte made his presence known. Natalia sat up. "Horses?"

"We borrowed some from a local breeder," Deanna said. "You ride?"

"My best friend had an uncle who raised thoroughbreds on a ranch north of San Francisco. I used to go up there with her for the weekend and we'd ride all over the hills. She actually got to take dressage lessons, but I had to take piano. I hated piano."

Deanna smirked at Jean-Luc. "Sounds familiar."

"You play the same arpeggios over and over for half an hour and see how much you like it," Jean-Luc exclaimed. "Having a brother who made fun of my attempts didn't help, either."

Forte neighed again, longer this time. "Wonder what he gets so talkative about at night?" Deanna mused.

"I think I'll go find out." Jean-Luc set aside his cup and shoved out his chair. He glanced at Natalia. "Want to come?"

She followed him eagerly. Jean-Luc regretted glancing back at Deanna -- she had a knowing, affectionate smile on her face as she gathered cups and headed into the kitchen.

The light over the back door came on as Jean-Luc stepped outside. He followed the familiar path along the house, stepping over the row of stones marking the border of the yard, and heard Natalia trip over one of them. He half-turned, but she'd caught herself -- but didn't notice he'd stopped until she ran into him.

"Sorry," she gasped, leaping backward.

"Relax, already. One of these days you'll get too wound up and make a real mistake."

He headed for the stable, another ringing neigh filling the night as he did so, and Natalia caught up to him as he opened the door. The light came on. Hooves pounded in the stalls, and the gelding's head came out over the door. Jean-Luc glanced around the barn and saw nothing one would think a horse would neigh about, and patted the horse's head.

"What's his name?"

"Forte Cloche -- Loud Bell, and you can tell why." He indicated the mare's head across the aisle. "That's Pistolet. She devotes all her energy to running out from under you."

Natalia laughed. "I rode a horse like that once. The minute you sat in the saddle, he wanted to charge off and leave you and the saddle sitting there." She gave the mare a good ear scratch, tolerated a slobbery push of the muzzle as Pistolet searched for handouts, and lost herself for a moment in contemplation of something.

Following an impulse, Jean-Luc left through the other door and went across a graveled area to the winery. The door creaked and squealed open and dust rose. Most people went through the front. The odor left over from years of fermenting grapes and other smells -- the biting smell of the chemicals used in the process of wine-making, yeast, and the mustiness of wood casks used and standing empty -- met him.

"Wow," Natalia whispered, alerting him that she'd come up behind him. "What a

smell! What's that over there?"

He turned -- she pointed across the gravel at the bare foundation of what was once a shed. "It used to be a building. It burned down."

"I thought everyone had sensors and fire retarda -- "

"Everyone who doesn't live in a persistently-anachronistic mindset does," he snapped.

Natalia taking a step backward jolted him to awareness of his harshness. He tried to steady himself, putting a hand on the side of the door. A splinter pricked his thumb.

"I'm sorry. My brother was old-fashioned. He -- ever had real French wine?" He made his way past the storage rooms in the dark, a clear idea of where he was going fixed in his memory. She stayed close behind.

"Not yours."

She still sounded wary; his outburst had shaken her. "I'm not upset with you. My brother and nephew died in the fire."

In the darkness, she sidled a step and bumped into something. "I'm. . . sorry. I didn't know."

"You wouldn't know. Don't worry about it. Here we are." His hand found the panel. The lights came up, illuminating the distillery. Racks of the large oak casks stood dusty and silent. Jean-Luc picked up a stray bit of wood and chucked it after a fleeting movement. "Damn rats. Henri hasn't been diligent about the traps. Maybe cats would help."

"All this is wine?" Natalia followed him up the aisle between the racks.

"Most of it. Some are empty and waiting. Those pale ones against the wall are new, French oak, straight from the cooper's. The aging process takes time, so every year a new batch goes in to replace the matured wine we bottle. Henri manages it all. Robert taught him the secrets to the cuvee, the blend, that Picards have been using for the last few generations. I'd be hopeless if I tried to run this myself. I haven't been here often enough to remember all the details."

They went into the front room, where bottled wine was kept, and he wandered through looking at labels on the ends of racks. "Would your mother prefer cabernet or merlot?"

"I don't really know a lot about wine. She always seemed to serve chardonnay when she had guests."

Jean-Luc moved toward the back of the room. "How many people are you having tomorrow?"

"She invited ten people, plus escorts, but there's six showing up. So eight, plus me and her, makes ten. The others aren't bringing anyone, but you and Dr. Crusher are." Her voice echoed in the room. "You don't have to -- "

"No, but I think I should. Who knows, might even gain a customer or two." He returned to the aisle where she stood shifting from one foot to the other and handed her a bottle, keeping the other four tucked in his arm. "What do you think?"

She looked out of place, an unnaturally-red-faced ensign in uniform, holding a bottle of chardonnay in the middle of his winery. Tossing her short hair burnished copper in the wavering lighting, she held up the wine to read the label. "I think Mom will be impressed no matter what flavor it is."

"Flavor," he sniffed. "It isn't juice, Natalia. Wine is more complicated than that. Let's go back to the house."

Deanna had shut off the music and moved Natalia's bags upstairs; she came back down as they came in the front door, and took one of the bottles from him when they met in the hall. "I hope you aren't planning to get comfortably drunk."

"No, three of these are for tomorrow night, and one for Bev and Tom. I meant to give them one and forgot. The fifth is for drinking."

"Three glasses, coming up." She drifted into the kitchen while he put the wine on the table in the entry.

Jean-Luc led their guest through to the living room, noted that she wandered a little, and smiled. "If you'd rather be elsewhere -- "

"I'm just a little. . . nervous. I mean, you think I'm shocked -- I had to call Mom and let her know I'd been invited along to Chateau Picard, which she accepted as a valid excuse for not coming home, seeing as how I'm probably the only crewmember to ever see the home of the famous Captain Picard. Let alone get a guided tour."

"That wasn't the full tour -- you'd be asleep by now listening to the details of winemaking." He sat in one of the easy chairs. Deanna came in, glasses in one hand, a corkscrew and the wine in the other, and took the chair next to him. After a moment's contemplation she gave the wine bottle back to him. Blowing dust from the bottle, he tore off the seal and jammed the corkscrew into the cork, twisting with a practiced hand.

"Leaves. What kind are they?"

He pulled the cork free with a pop and saw that Natalia stood in front of the framed project Rene had done. "The top four are from grape vines, here in the vineyards. The rest were gathered from the woods around the house. My nephew did that for school. The scientific names of them are written underneath, you'll notice."

"The grape leaves are all different-looking -- how many kinds of grape do you grow?"

"The more round one with the deep petiolar sinus is from the chardonnay. The shiny dark one with red teeth and overlapping lateral sinuses is the cabernet -- he collected them in the fall, when the cabernet leaves turn red."

"What? Leaves have sinuses?"

Deanna's suppressed laughter tickled him -- he shot her a disgruntled glance. She often teased him about his penchant for inadvertently lecturing on subjects he knew well when someone expressed an interest. Only Natalia's genuine curiosity kept him from giving up the subject. "The concavities between the lobes of the leaves. The petiolar sinus is the deep one where the stem attaches to the leaf. The lateral sinuses are between the lobes, less pronounced on the chardonnay, deeper on the cabernet, and broader and deeper on the merlot, which is the next one, the dark one with the broad V-shaped petiolar sinus. You'll notice all of them have five-lobed leaves, regardless of type."

Natalia shook her head and backed off, perching on the couch in front of the window. "And you say you don't know everything you need to know to run the place. I never figured there were so many kinds of grapes."

Deanna took her a glass of wine, returned to her chair, and accepted a full glass from Jean-Luc. He put the bottle on the lamp table to his left and sat back. "The devil's in the details, whether it's grape-growing or sitting at ops. I used to help in the vineyards, not the winery."

They sat sipping and listening to the crickets. Nice that Natalia seemed to appreciate the value of silence -- too many people seemed to feel the necessity of filling every moment with conversation. Forte neighed again finally, making all of them smile and glance at each other.

"I wish. . . ." Natalia sat back and looked out the window over the back of the couch. "It's so peaceful here. Beautiful. I love the house."

"Thank you."

She turned to him, chin in hand, and smiled. "Thanks for letting me stay. It. . . helps. I don't understand exactly how I ended up here, why you're being so generous, but I appreciate it very much."

Jean-Luc glanced at the smiling woman on his right and sighed. {I know exactly how she ended up here. Damned empath.}

{Papa Jean wouldn't come out and play unless the captain's sense of propriety was served -- I'll take the blame if it makes you happy, Jean-Fish. I figure it makes good practice for you.}

Another neigh rang out over the cricket song. "You'd think after the racing around we did earlier today, he'd want to sleep," Jean-Luc muttered.

"Speaking of sleep, I think I should do that," Natalia said, looking at her empty glass uncertainly.

"I'll take it. Upstairs, the last door on the left, and the bathroom is across the hall," Deanna said. "I put your bag at the foot of the bed. If you need anything, want something to eat or drink, feel free to rummage for it. We're going for a walk."

When she'd gone, Deanna got up and headed for the kitchen to discard glasses. He followed with the bottle, putting the cork in loosely and leaving it in the stasis unit. They went out the back, his arm going around her as they entered the woods.

"You *do* tame nicely," she murmured, her arm going around his waist.

"One runs risks, when one allows oneself to be tamed -- the risk of having one's curtain shredded beyond repair, for example."

"I think you can trust Natalia not to shred your curtain. She hasn't done it so far."

"You're right, you know."

"About?"

"She does remind me of Meribor. Too much."

"Oh. That. Yes, I know."

"But there's something else. . . ."

They reached the tree, their shoes crunching in dried leaves. Deanna stopped with her hand on the trunk. Starlight, faint as it was under the branches, glinted in her eye.

"She also reminds me of you, daring to move forward in spite of her feeling of insecurity, that lingering idea she's somehow deficient. That she'll make fatal mistakes."

"Is that why you feel an impulse to help her?"

He took her hand and steadied her as she put a foot in the first knot. "Part of it. As a favorite counselor of mine said, motivations are often mixed when it comes to friends and officers. But, like you, she'll be all right. Up -- let's hope the ants haven't found the chocolate."

~^~^~^~^~^~

Tom went upstairs slowly, trying not to make the steps creak under his boots. The sounds of conversation and laughter became more distant as he moved down the hall toward the bedroom door at the end. His old room, which Ollie had refurbished and turned into a guest room, but he always ended up in there when he came home.

The door opened and closed silently on well-oiled hinges. Beverly didn't appear to wake up; she lay sprawled across the beet-red coverlet Ollie had decided matched the red and gold wallpaper. He wondered again briefly if his sister weren't slightly color-blind. Thumbing the lock on the knob, he crossed the room, smiling at the faint scent of the dozen desert roses starting to bloom in the vase on the window sill.

The time difference between France and Oregon began to drag at him too -- even if they'd only been there a day, his internal clock was trying to catch up, perceiving this as the longest day he'd had in a while and protesting the extra hours. He sat, removed his boots, and fit himself into what was left of the bed next to her. Unexpectedly she sat up and put her head on his shoulder.

"Can't seem to sleep." She sighed wearily. Tom rubbed her back and patted her hip.

"This is a nice place to be, though. Sexy woman, soft bed."

"Tyra still here?"

"Have you figured out what I was talking about yet?"

"Hell, Tom, I'm sorry. I should have listened to you. I thought for sure she couldn't be as bad as all that, if you'd fallen for her once upon a time." Beverly's hand made its way up underneath his shirt and slid along his skin, turning his thoughts to other things.

"You know how people change. What happened between her and me changed both of us, her for the worse. Which is what I mean by terrible mistakes committed."

"She chose to be what she is, obviously -- she didn't have to react to it the way she did. No one can force anyone else to change. Don't sound so guilt-ridden." Beverly's head came up, and her eyes met his. "I happen to know you've been really, really good for me."

His mouth fell open. Her hand had taken a southward turn, moved down under his waistband, and her voice had dropped to sultry. "Ah, Verly, you know -- "

"Don't care. Come out and play with me?"

Her mouth on his stifled any reply he might have managed to make. Forgetting that there were probably people a wall away in any direction, he came up to meet her, pulling at her shirt and bra while she worked at his jacket and the short-sleeved shirt he wore under it. By the time she got to his pants, she laughed.

"Sovereign-class captains and their Sovereign-class equipment," she murmured against his throat. The soft warmth of her palm as she ran her hand up said equipment took his breath away.

It took too long to get her pants off. Leaving them dangling on her left leg, he almost smothered her with a kiss. She flinched a little at his insistent entry, eyes widening then closing as she arced against him with a moan.

"All of it, Tom," she gasped. In it went, the sensation of her closing on him, wet and soft and tight all at the same time, sending a jolt of pleasure up his cock. Kneading her breast, he forced his tongue into her mouth and thrust haphazardly, following the urge to claim her. She wrapped her arms around him, put herself into it, and together they made the bedsprings complain rhythmically. He came with a jerk and a gasp, his hand closing tightly on her arm.

"God," he whispered. "Verly. I love you. Need you -- I don't want to lose you, ever."

She held him in her arms, didn't push him off, and he couldn't seem to move anyway. He wanted to keep her this close, with her body cradling him and her foot rubbing the back of his calf. Her fingers through his hair, over and over, made him aware that something was going on -- raising his head, he saw that tears stood in her eyes, a few making it down her face.

"What's wrong? Sweetie, what is it, don't cry," he whispered, caressing her face with his fingers.

"I guess I was a little afraid of her, after you introduced us and I saw how well she gets along with your sisters -- "

"Damn!" He rolled off and sat on the edge of the bed, flinging her shirt -- the first thing that came to hand -- on the floor. "Beverly, I don't give a shit what my sisters think. I don't care what Tyra does or with whom. I don't care if she saunters up and makes kissy noises in my ear -- the only reason I let her get away with it was to keep the peace and not turn this whole day into something we'd all look back on as regrettable. You," he turned and jabbed a finger in her breast, "you are what counts. You. Not little miss smug-ass Goveretzky wagging her butt in my face. You want me to get rid of her? If it'll wipe this little doe-eyed pitiful insecurity complex off your face, I'll go pick her up and throw her in the road."

When he looked at her face, it stopped more angry exclamations -- she held her hand over a smile, laying there against the pillows and rumpled covers. "I stand corrected."

"What the hell were you crying for?"

"I was just happy, Tom, just going through some emotional release -- I figured if you really wanted to think I was upset, I'd just check to be absolutely sure -- "

"Manipulative wench!" He threw his shirt at her.

"You're so *cute* when you're -- "

"Stop, right there, and don't ever dare mention that adjective to anyone in association with me again. *Especially* me."

"Only if you come back over here and cuddle up. You owe me for your little sprinter's fuck-a-thon."

"You and your terminology," he exclaimed, laughing, settling next to her with an arm across her. "What kind of doctor are you?"

"The dedicated, caring kind, of course," she murmured, kissing his cheek. "I've worked very hard on my bedside manner."

"I can tell. This patient is more interested in the middle-of-the-bed manner, however."

"How is it so far?"

"Absolutely no complaints. In fact, I'd like to sign up for round-the-clock intensive care." His arm snugged up under her breasts, he kissed her shoulder.

"That's about what you've had for the last twenty-four hours or so. Didn't know you had it in you, old man."

"Not any more, I don't. I'm surprised I could even sprint. Must be your fault."

They lay quietly for a while, enjoying the closeness and the opportunity to relax completely without fear of a red alert or a demand made by their jobs. The shouts startled them out of the peace. Tom groaned.

"Knew it was too good to last. Sounds like Cressie and Ollie."

"We should go back down anyway, I guess."

They cleaned up and got dressed. "We're lucky, as the only boy in the family I got special dispensation and got my own bathroom. Mom took pity on me," he said, opening the door for her. "Otherwise we'd be trotting down to the communal bath. Of course, the twins usually threw me out of mine anyway, but the thought was there."

Ted, coming from the kitchen at the back of the house as they reached the bottom of the stairs, glanced up at them, grinned around the bite he was taking out of an apple, and gave them a thumbs-up on his way toward the front room. Tom chuckled at Beverly's blush and smacked her butt, embarrassing her further.

"Good ride."

"Ollie's right, you're just crude." But unlike Ollie, she was on the verge of laughing about it.

"Must be doing something right." He kissed her ear and put an arm around her as they entered the room.

Ollie fought with Chloe, not Cressie -- the twins just sounded that much alike. They stood at the other end of the room, pacing around each other, gesturing. "If you had any *sense* you'd learn how to run the family business just in case," Ollie said hotly.

"Old argument. Call it a draw and shut up," Tom exclaimed, using a cold, angry tone he reserved for occasions such as finding a wild party on the bridge. Both of them turned to stare at him.

"You're just as bad -- you take Dad's name, but you take off for the stars and leave the girls to pick up the loose ends," Ollie spat. "You have any idea what I go through trying to make this place work?"

"Both of you stop it," Cat exclaimed. "Tom's right, it's the oldest argument in the world and you shouldn't inflict it on our guests."

"It's easy for you, Cat, you get to go off to your dance studio with your husband and kids and forget all about this. But the minute I suggest selling the place, you're all in a huff about the family business," Ollie shot back. "And this is an old house -- it needs a lot of upkeep!"

"We should quit this and discuss it later, after our guests leave." Cressie gestured with her glass at Ted. "Come on, Olivia, let's just have some peace this time. Okay?"

"When are we going to discuss it with no guests? Tom'll just disappear with Beverly. Chloe will leave with Ted. Easy to put it off, isn't it? We have to talk about it! This is an issue I want to discuss -- I'm having a tough time managing the greenhouses. I need some support. This isn't just a hobby, it's hard work, you know?"

Tom crossed his arms and surveyed the room. The kids sat around a board game on the hearth, looking up with matching wide blue eyes all around; Cressie on the end of the couch hid her face in her hands; Ted, standing at the end of the mantel, ate his apple; and Cat presided over it all seated in her usual chair with her queenly straightness. All onlookers in the usual go-round of 'my life is harder than your life' squabbling.

And Tyra, clad in her pale yellow tights and the long russet overtunic with beadwork on it, Tyra who would not go with him to the stars but who insisted that someday he'd wise up and just come home. Tyra with her long straight black hair and haughty superiority when she looked at Beverly. Not a single rude word had she uttered, but even now she regarded Beverly with cool detached studiousness, as if Verly were just a bump in the road.

"I think she's right." Tossing her hair back in a calculatedly-fetching way, Tyra strolled around the couch and across the floor between the couch and the hearth as if taking center stage. "I mean, everyone goes their separate ways by the end of the day, whenever there's a get-together like this."

At Tom's side, Beverly shifted slightly from one foot to the other -- she could see what Tyra was doing. Insinuating a close kinship with the family. Trying to intimidate the 'fling.' Tyra had been getting in the sly digs since her arrival, always darting a sly glance at Beverly when she made them. Cat had said nothing, Ollie hadn't appeared to notice, the twins were wrapped up in their own agendas, and the kids were oblivious.

Rather than swear in four or five alien languages, Tom waited for the rage to boil away so he could speak without apparent ire. And by the time he felt he could do that, he had a pretty clear idea of how to squash the whole argument flat, and get Tyra off his back. Ollie waited, arms crossed, apparently thinking Tyra had made a significant contribution to her side.

"Thank you, Ollie, for the detailed tour this morning -- for letting us see the greenhouses and for giving the lengthy discourses and answering questions on the operation of the Glendenning family business," he said calmly. Prowling a few steps forward, he stared at Tyra, returning her sly catty gaze through his lashes, then turned back to Olivia.

"Thank you for pointing out to us that everything here is operating smoothly due to your hard work and tireless attention. Thank you, for reminding me once again of how easy I have it in Starfleet. For reminding me that the nose I got smashed in while undercover in the DMZ that healed up crooked because it took me four weeks to get back to Federation space was nothing compared to a rose thorn in the thumb. The time they had to resuscitate my dead body when they beamed it back from an away mission gone awry, and the surgery correcting the lacerated and bloody mess my face was after tussling with a Cardassian who didn't like my uniform -- nothing to write home about. I've had it so damn easy keeping your precious greenhouses from suffering under the tyranny of the Dominion, I'll just lay down and worship your dedication to the cause. I mean, forget all those officers who died in the line of duty, whose lives I was responsible for. Forget that I had to order some of them to their deaths. Forget that I was part of the cleanup effort after Wolf 359, where the 10,000 or so men and women who died keeping the Borg at bay floated cold and lifeless out in the stars, and I had to spend days going through the wreckage looking for body parts. Forget how many letters had to go out to the victims' families. I had to come up with a thousand ways to say 'sorry, your loved one died a horrible, tragic death saving the Federation from assimilation.' But what's a little extra correspondence, right?"

The sound of the front door closing broke his focus. He noted that Beverly had left. Pointing the direction she'd gone, he said, "She saw it, too. She knows what it's like out there. You wonder why I say nothing, Ted, that's why. This is home. Where bodies don't get torn apart, and people are absolutely innocent of the things I've seen. Oh, I'm sure everyone knows it happens, but you don't really *know* about it. I get to order people to die, and Beverly gets to put people like me back together again. So Ollie, when I retire I'll come home and handle the business, if it'll make you happy. You can run off and have the time of your life while good old Geraint suffers the hardship of what fertilizer to buy and how much water to give the roses. After fighting off domination of the home world with impulse engines, minimal shields, and a prayer, I figure I can handle any old pile of dirt horticulture might confront me with."

The room fell silent. Ollie gaped at him -- everyone else seemed fascinated by the carpet. He left them there, and slammed the front door behind him. Beverly, leaning on the railing, stared at the ground. He came up behind her, rubbed her shoulder blades, brushed aside her hair, and kissed the back of her neck.

"All my friends and family have been somehow connected to Starfleet for so long, I'd forgotten how different opinions could be," she murmured. "Weren't you a little hard on them?"

"It happens at least once every time I come home. I usually swallow it and let them stay innocent. But Tyra's here, and you're here, and by the time they got through to the end of the disagreement they'd be ragging on me. Cat's ragging on them doesn't do much good at stopping it." He joined her in leaning on the railing and ran his fingers through his hair. "Tyra wouldn't go with me on my ship. Not because of the danger -- she just didn't want to leave Earth. That's why we broke up. She doesn't understand anything about it, so I knew it wouldn't work with her. My sisters are the same way, they just don't get it."

Beverly picked at a splinter from the railing, then fingered her bracelet as she'd been doing all day. "Tyra wanted you to leave Starfleet?"

"She didn't like my focus on it. She wanted to be the center of my universe."

"Doesn't every woman want that from their man?"

"I don't care what every woman wants. What do you want?"

She straightened and faced him. Sober and thoughtful, she studied him, running a finger down his nose. "The DMZ?"

"It's in my records. I figured you'd already looked through the medical files."

"I did. You've been busted up almost as much as Jean-Luc. It's certainly not an easy life, being captain."

"You want me to quit?" He asked as softly as he could, in earnest, hoping she could tell the offer was really there.

Startled, she pursed her lips. More clouds scudding in her eyes. Long moments trickled by. He felt dampness starting in his armpits at the waiting. He wanted to say her name, pray it to her, make her understand that the emptiness yawning between them in the waiting was intolerable to him and that if she turned away he'd leap across it, or die trying --

"No," she whispered. "It's who you are. I won't ask that of you."

Tom held her chin in his palm and ran his fingers along the edge of her jaw. The gulf closed with a silent snap. "I would, if I had to." He met her gaze, intent on beaming the seriousness of it to her any way he could.

"Don't." Her eyes flitted to the cobweb-strewn rafters overhead and down to the boards under their feet. "Please."

Sighing, he leaned both elbows on the railing again. "I'm not trying to be pushy, it's just. . . the way it is."

A moment passed in silence. A touch on his arm -- she moved her hand down to close around his, and he looked at her white fingers. White compared to his darker complexion anyway, and strong for all their slenderness.

"Time," she whispered.

"As much as you like. I'm not going anywhere. Nowhere you can't go with me, anyway. Okay?"

"Yes."

The front door banged open. Chloe stepped out, Bronson and Ted behind her. "You said once you'd take us on a tour any time we wanted to go," she said. "Is today a good time?"

Tom gaped at them a few seconds. "Sure. Ever been on a starship, Bron?"

"We toured a Soyuz-class in school," he exclaimed.

"Sovereign-class makes a Soyuz look like a shuttle," Beverly said, grinning. She squeezed Tom's fingers and stepped around him. "Prepare to be overwhelmed."

Tom herded them off the porch and was surprised further when Cat appeared with Mark. And then Ollie and Briona, and finally Cressida. "I don't get it -- what's with the sudden change of heart? I've asked you for years and all of a sudden you're wanting to go on a tour?"

Cat met his gaze seriously. "I'd like to contact Anwen, have her meet us -- is that doable from the ship or should I try the house comm system?"

"Anwen -- you said she had to give lessons all day."

"It isn't every day her uncle comes home, is it?" Cat glanced at Ollie, a scathing look -- what on earth had happened in the moments after he'd left the room?

Ted pitched his apple core across the yard. "This," he exclaimed, running his fingers through his salt and pepper hair, "is going to be a fascinating tour. I've *never* been on a starship."

"Is Tyra coming?" Beverly asked. Everyone looked at her in surprise. Tyra, coming out the door last, heard and tossed her hair back from her face.

"Am I invited?"

"Sure, why not?" Tom counted heads. Three kids, four sisters, two officers, an attorney and an ex-girlfriend. Lovely. He searched his pockets, then noticed Beverly held out his communicator with a sly smile. Taking it while giving her a mildly-perturbed look, he affixed it to the blue jacket and tapped it. "Glendenning to *Venture.*"

"Captain," came Rorqual's quick response. The security chief sounded a little surprised.

"I'm bringing up the family for a tour -- transporters online?"

"Of course, sir. I have your coordinates."

"Good. Ten people to beam up, then."

Nearly everyone materialized in the transporter room with a jerk -- Beverly glanced around at them, amused, as she stepped down off the pad. "I'm going down to sickbay for a surprise inspection," she said. "Got to keep them on their toes. I'll catch up with you." She left the transporter room at a casual pace.

"Wow, neat," Briona blurted. "That felt funny."

"Don't worry, it put you back together the right way. Thanks, Benter," he said, heading for the door with a wave to the transporter attendant. "Come on, gang, don't get lost."

They trailed behind him in the corridor, looking around with wide eyes, and Chloe stuck to his heels and clung to Ted's arm. "How big is this ship?"

"Six hundred eighty-five meters long, same as the *Enterprise.* Twenty-four decks. Crew complement of seven hundred. Cruising speed of warp eight, the best shield systems the fleet can offer, not to mention the armaments -- we're classified as a battle cruiser."

He loaded them all in a lift, making for a tight fit, and took them first to the forward observation area looking out into the interior of McKinley. Pointing out and to the left, he said, "There's the *Enterprise.* She looks almost exactly like this ship. See all the tiny things flitting around her? Those are two-person shuttlepods and sightseeing shuttles, that'll give you an idea of relative size. Down there's the *Phoenix,* my old ship -- she's about to depart for her final journey to retirement."

"What's that one?" Bronson had plastered himself against the viewport and pointed at a smaller ship berthed not far from *Enterprise.*

"That's a Saber-class. Odd to see one here -- they're usually further out in the border sectors. The one next to it is a Nova, probably Captain De'valis' ship. I saw him at Command a couple days ago. Well, I'll -- there's the *Hancock.* Bellamy came in for the ceremony. I was afraid he wouldn't make it." The New Orleans-class traveled sideways and up, slowing to a stop as the umbilical came out from one of the docking arms to mate with the appropriate spot on the engineering section. A neat bit of navigating. Tom grinned and turned his attention back to his family.

"We have a variety of places we could see, but I think starting with the bridge is best -- everything's controlled from there. We can call Anwen from there, too." He stopped cold at the expressions on their faces. "Anything wrong?"

Ollie hugged herself and stepped apart from the others, more or less in his direction. "You never said much about what you did before. I'm sorry, Geraint. Cat's right, we do it to you every time you come, and it's never really hit home that you really have such responsibilities. Hundreds of people under you, and all this -- and you've got a ship like *Enterprise.* Just like it, and -- "

"Hey, don't sweat it, Ol. It's just my duty. Just what I do. I've already had the folks in the arboretum plant those roses, by the way, so I should take you along to criticize their efforts. And I'll bet the kids would love to meet my first officer -- computer, location of Commander Data."

"Commander Data is in main engineering," came the disembodied, pleasant voice, making them all jump.

Tom tapped his comm badge. "Glendenning to Data."

"Data here -- sir, I thought you were on leave."

"I am, but my family wanted a tour. Are you in the middle of anything critical?"

"No, sir, I was merely giving a tour of my own -- Geordi wished to see the ship. He and Commander Besala are currently involved in the traditional efficiency rating competition I have noticed engineers seem to enjoy."

"I think LaForge knows his way around a Sovereign-class well enough, don't you? Care to meet us on the bridge?"

"I shall be there momentarily. Data out."

Tom, already in motion for the door, tapped his badge again. "Glendenning to bridge -- anyone home?"

"Sir?"

Rolling his eyes, Tom sniffed. "Who is this?"

"Sorry sir -- Ensign Javez here. Commander Rorqual left the bridge for a moment."

"That's all right, Ensign, you don't have to sound like you'll be eaten alive for it. I'm bringing up a group of people. If you'd be so kind as to reassure me that all those open panels and components have been picked up?"

"The only remaining work being done is to the secondary stations, sir, and those are being buttoned up as we speak. Your ready room is being finished. The level one diagnostic on bridge systems is scheduled in five hours."

"Yes, I know, Ensign, I scheduled it."

"Sorry -- "

"Just let Rorqual know we're coming, Ensign. Glendenning out."

In the lift, Briona nuzzled up against him. Tom patted her shoulder. "What's with this, Bri?"

"Did it hurt to die?"

He hadn't counted on his words having such an impact. He also hadn't considered what the kids might think -- damning himself for it could wait, now he had to do damage control. Catching her chin in his hand, he tipped her head back to make her look him in the eye.

"Briona, Grandmother Sinclair had a saying she loved to repeat -- dance like no one is watching, love like you'll never be hurt, sing like no one is listening, live like it's heaven on earth. There are no guarantees no matter where you live, sweetheart. Don't worry about your uncle -- he's been around the quadrant a few times, and things are getting better. If you come to the commission ceremony I'll introduce you to Captain Picard -- he's been through even more than I have and he's even older than old Uncle Ger."

He glanced at his sisters' faces as he spoke, and saw the confirmation of his suspicions -- they'd finally been disillusioned. His speech had awakened them to his reality, shaken them out of their own little world and opened a window on his own. Innocence lost, all the way around.

They reached the bridge to find Data waiting for them with Rorqual, and the group broke off into smaller ones, the kids swarming around the android and Ted going with them out of avid curiosity, his sisters and Tyra paying attention to Rorqual as he explained the functions of the different stations.

Beverly came in from the lift, gliding onto the bridge and down to stand with him near his ready room door. "How's it going?" she asked softly.

"You were right -- I went too far. Suddenly they're all worried that I'll drop dead. Briona wanted to know if it hurt to die."

"But they should understand at least that it's dangerous, and the sacrifices you make. If you did die, and they found out about the details of what you do after the fact, they would feel guilty that they didn't have the chance to appreciate it. If they had the same argument with you every time you come home, and they finally found out how they'd misunderstood when it was too late to apologize, they'd feel guilty."

She stood with crossed arms, pointedly not touching him, and watched his face. Sighing, he smiled wryly and shook his head. "I take it you've had experience with this sort of thing."

"There are several levels of knowing about the dangers of space. The intellectual level, which I had before Jack died, and the indirect level, which I had when he died and I had to hear the explanation of how and why. And the direct level, of being out there myself. Your sisters knew it was dangerous, but they didn't *know* it until you shared some of your experiences. Specific details shook them hard because they've spent years not knowing them, and now they realize what you've been doing and how they might have lost you countless times already." She touched his arm, just the reassuring contact of a friend. "Tom, you might have startled them, but they did need to know."

"I think. . . I didn't want them to know. You know?"

Sadness and sympathy in her eyes told him she did. "It'll be all right. We should make the tour fun for them, to compensate."

Mark's laughter, joined by Briona's and Bronson's, rang out. Data was coaching them through a bridge scenario, sitting in the center chair with Briona in the counselor's chair and Bron in the first officer's place, with Mark at the helm and Ted at ops.

"Looks like the fun part's well under way." Tom glanced at Beverly again. "Probably not a good place for this, but -- I love you, Verly."

"Definitely not a good place for it, but I love you, too. Let's get the show on the road. And all things considered, let's skip sickbay."

~^~^~^~^~^~

Jean-Luc poked the doorbell with a finger, holding one wine bottle under his arm and the other two in the other arm. A moment later, the door of the modern single-story home slid aside to reveal Natalia. She smiled, or tried, but looked tired and a little red-eyed. Her sleeveless dress, coincidentally, almost matched his shirt, a pale seafoam green with gold buttons for decoration; his shirt was a shade darker and had a matching jacket over it.

She took the wine bottles from him, one in each hand, and stood back to let him in. Hesitating in the entry as the front door shut, she said, "Thanks again for letting me stay last night. I wanted to thank you this morning but the commander said you'd already left for a ride when she woke me up. My official story is that I stayed with friends, if anyone else on the *Enterprise* asks, but Mom and the other folks here know -- I couldn't get around it. Mom asked about the redness and I told her about the plasma leak finally. She's upset."

"How do you feel?"

Natalia looked at the wall. "Okay. A little sore in the face. Priteri is stable for the moment, and Batris is okay, but worse than me. I thanked him for pulling me back. I hope he gets a commendation for what he did -- it took a lot of guts to do that. More than I had, anyway."

"Natalia." It brought her eyes back to his face. "Don't spend a lot of time dissecting what happened and blaming yourself. Use the situation to better yourself. Learn from it. Realize that you will not always be able to maintain control -- you're human. How you handle failure or pain is as important as how you achieve success. I have as many failures to my credit as I do successes. What happened to you in that jeffries tube is by no means the worst thing that could happen, and it won't be the last bad situation you're in -- it'll be one of many if you stay in Starfleet long. Is that the cobbler I smell?"

The question caught her off guard. "Yes, it is."

"So you can do something well enough, I see."

A genuine smile blossomed, rewarding his effort, and unexpectedly she leaned forward and kissed his cheek, leaving him wide-eyed. At once she covered her mouth with a hand. "Sorry. But this is probably the only opportunity -- Dad would have liked you, Captain. I've enjoyed our. . . whatever it is. Friendship. But if you weren't my commanding officer, I'd want to call you uncle, like Uncle Telly."

"You would? I'm flattered, but it wouldn't be appropriate."

"Not even just today?" Her eyes begged. Eline's voice, distant but no less touching, sounded in his memory, chiding him for being too gruff with little Meribor, whose eyes got that big and were that brown.

"Today," he echoed, half-questioning. She took it for confirmation; her eyes lit up and her smile returned. "You see what you've done, don't you? This is all your fault. So much for maintaining an appropriate formality with my crew."

"I can protect your reputation -- haven't I kept Ensign Billings a secret?" She turned and pointed with her chin. "Everyone's outside on the deck -- Uncle."

Already, he regretted that. "Not on the ship, mind you."

"Of course not, sir." The genuine smile deepened to dimples. "You'd better go, before I start thanking you again. And by the way, I read that book, The Little Prince -- there was a copy in my room. You know what part I liked the best?"

"I'm afraid to ask."

"The end, where the little prince goes home and leaves the aviator in the desert. Where he says that now when the aviator looks at the stars, he'll know that somewhere out there near one of them the little prince lives, and he'll think about their friendship and laugh, and all the stars will be laughing. The stars will be a matter of consequence, because somewhere among them he knows there is a true friend, unique in all the universe, and it will make him happy. If I ever transfer off the *Enterprise* that's the way the stars will be for me, because you and Deanna and all the other friends I've made aboard will be out there somewhere."

He chuckled, trying not to sound too affected, and patted her shoulder. "Good for you, Natalia. You're a step ahead of me when I was your age." Looking at her there in the small entry of her house, holding bottles of wine, with no hint of intimidation and with honest respect and affection in her smiling brown eyes, he paused again. "Do you understand now what I've told you before, about balancing friends and duty?"

"I'm starting to. I have a good example to follow -- I've been doing my best, even to lifting weights and drinking tea. But I won't shave my head."

"Merde -- Natalia -- "

"Not on board, sir, yes, sir." She grinned and turned to lead the way. "But what good's an uncle if you can't tease once in a while?"

"You've spent too much time with officers, young lady. You're supposed to -- "

"But I'm not wearing boots to quake in, and my heels would slide out of my sandals and I'd fall, so I'll quake for a couple hours when I get back to the ship to make up for it."

"I hope you have a good toothbrush. Bald jokes are punishable offenses." The well-worn joke brought him back to familiar territory, at least.

"The torpedo tubes need cleaning again?"

"I was thinking the outer hull of the saucer section was looking dingy."

"That should be fun -- I haven't had much EVA time."

They emerged from a sliding door on the back deck of the house. Melissa Keel Greenman rose from the group sitting in a circle in one corner, and her appearance startled him. In his mind, she'd frozen in her mid-twenties; this woman still had dark brown hair, but shot with grey, and she'd lost the rangy quality of the very young. He'd pictured someone like Natalia, in fact, in spite of knowing better, and here was a woman only slightly younger than he, still attractive in her jade pantsuit but not the Melissa he'd known. Though she smiled, he could see the weariness and worry in her eyes -- Natalia's accident had done that to her.

She kissed his cheek in the same place Natalia had. "Jean-Luc -- it's been far too long! Fine thing, I had to send my only child out into the universe to get you to come for a visit."

"How are you, Mel? I'm sorry to hear about your husband. Belatedly, but that seems to be the norm for me."

She pulled him along and seated him in one of the chairs. He found himself next to Beverly, who winked at him.

"I guess I don't have to introduce you to Beverly or Tom," Melissa said. "The handsome gent next to Tom is Telemachus Finch, an old friend of the family. I think you've met him before -- and also Laura McDonough, and my cousin Craig Bellamy."

Jean-Luc greeted the others cordially. Telemachus had been gray-haired the last time Jean-Luc had seen him years before, and other than a few more lines in an already-weather-beaten angular face, he was the same, sharp pale blue eyes, slouchy worn-looking red shirt, and all. He'd served under Walker as a non-com. Laura was another old friend of Walker's, a diplomatic attache by trade, older by the same number of years as the rest of them but the least changed, probably due to the wonders of cosmetic technology. She had short wavy brown hair, hazel eyes, and a strong personality, and exuded the same familiar confidence, sitting with shapely crossed legs that extended from beneath her mid-length batik wrap skirt. Bellamy was himself -- in uniform, and though he didn't ignore the others, most of his attention seemed to be on Laura.

"Mom," Natalia said, catching her attention now that the introductions were over and holding up the wine bottles. "He brought us this -- it's from his vineyard."

Melissa turned and took one of the bottles from her daughter. "Jean-Luc! This is wonderful -- why didn't I know you had a vineyard?"

"I didn't, until recently. As the last surviving Picard I inherited it from my brother."

"Robert, right? He's -- I'm sorry to hear it. I had no idea."

Jean-Luc looked at Natalia's red face and arms. "It's been a few years now. He and his son died tragically in a freak accident -- one of the sheds at the chateau caught fire, and Robert died with Rene trying to save him. It's odd, the twists and turns destiny takes. All the times I've cheated death in the line of duty, run at it laughing and daring it to take me, and I still inherit the family business."

His eyes slid from Natalia's face to Melissa's; he held her gaze steadily, waiting. She blanched for a moment, mouth open, then looked down at the wine bottles she held. "I'll just. . . go put these in the kitchen," she managed, hurrying toward the house.

Natalia stared at him big-eyed with an uncertain expression, until the sound of the doorbell echoed through the house. She hurried to answer it.

"That would be Deanna, I would guess," Jean-Luc said. "She had some last minute business aboard the ship."

"What's going on? I can see Natalia has some healing plasma burns," Beverly said. "Melissa's been wavering on the edge of tears off and on since we've been here. Tom and I got here first and interrupted what seemed to be an argument between mother and daughter."

"Mel's never liked Nat being in the fleet," Craig said with more empathy than Jean-Luc had ever heard from the brash captain. "She lost Bennett at Wolf, and Walker also went in the line of duty, and there have been others, friends and cousins, who've also died in Starfleet. She keeps at Nat about coming home for good."

"I can't say as I blame her, but isn't Nat a little old to tell her what to do? I stopped telling Wesley what to do like that when he was a teen -- I had to start suggesting at some point, or he'd turn away completely." Beverly recrossed her legs. The dark blue dress she wore had a pattern of gold beads across the front, which after further inspection proved to be a fleur di lis.

Jean-Luc looked at Telemachus. The old man knew about the other circumstance, the sexual assault, but whether Craig or Laura knew he couldn't be sure. Tom wouldn't know. Melissa's fear had a lot to do with that assault, he knew, as much as it had to do with the loss of her husband and brother. She wanted her child to be happy, had tried to provide a safe home for her, only to see her daughter violated then dragged through the court system as a witness and inadvertent victim of publicity. Watching Natalia pursuing the sort of career that had killed her husband couldn't be easy.

"There are other factors involved, other circumstances," Jean-Luc said, turning to Beverly. "But it is as it is. Natalia's burns were the result of an unfortunate mishap in engineering yesterday, and it appears her fears were correct. Mel's apparently using it as a weapon in her battle to convince Natalia to abandon Starfleet."

"So you countered -- Jean-Luc. Such interference on a mere ensign's behalf." Beverly swatted his arm. "What a big softie you are."

"It's Deanna's fault," he said as Deanna came outside. She hesitated, looked askance at him, then came around to take the empty chair on his left. She'd chosen one of the sarongs she'd taken to wearing around the ship while off duty, a bright turquoise one with black edging. "Isn't that a bit cool for San Francisco?"

"It's a bright day," she said, gesturing at the blue sky and the sun. "What's my fault?"

"Beverly said I'm a softie."

"She can say that -- she doesn't have to endure the ritual two hundred hours thrashing sessions. You're actually quite angular."

Beverly groaned, shaking her head. Telemachus' dry chuckle drew Deanna's attention. "Telemachus Finch," she said with a smile. "Natalia's told me a lot about you."

"The reverse is also true, Mrs. Picard. She's quite fond of you. When I arrived she did nothing but talk about her friends on the *Enterprise,* at least until she let me come out and join the others. This lovely lady on my right is Laura McDonough, and I think you know Craig?"

"Of course I know him. There isn't a female officer in the quadrant who doesn't, in some sense of the word."

Melissa chose that moment, when all of them were laughing out loud and Craig rolled his eyes, to return with a tray of drinks. The conversation turned to reminiscing as expected, and Jean-Luc realized after an hour of it that Deanna had fallen silent as Natalia, who hovered and refilled drinks while her mother participated in the extended walk down memory lane. Dropping out of active participation gradually, Jean-Luc sipped his Samarian sunset and pretended to study it.

{Cygne, you seem tired. The time difference?}

{Yes. We were up late last night, too. I'll be fine. I'm enjoying the stories. Another opportunity to learn about my husband when he was young and reckless.}

{Maybe that isn't such a good idea.}

{Oh, Jean-Fish, you know it wouldn't change my opinion of you.}

"Look at you," Beverly exclaimed, jogging his arm. "Nodding off in your chair!"

"There *is* a nine hour time difference," Tom said. "He'd probably just gotten used to French time."

"Natalia, you're the bartender," Jean-Luc said, turning in his chair. "Have anything that'll wake me up?"

"Hot tea?" She jogged in the house upon receiving the nod.

"Jean-Luc?" Melissa's questioning got his attention. He found her gazing at him over Deanna's lap, sitting between Deanna and Craig with her drink on her knee. She hadn't addressed him directly since his earlier remarks had upset her. "I want to know why Natalia didn't tell me yesterday about the accident. I want to know why she ended up at your house last night."

"I invited her," Deanna put in. "She was very upset. Giving her time alone to recover was the goal. I'm afraid that as her former counselor, I feel a little more concern for her mental well-being than I would as a first officer. She's been one of my more challenging patients, and I hated to see her coming undone over something that was so obviously not her fault. Jean-Luc's presence was an added benefit to her -- she looks up to him quite fondly."

"God only knows why," he muttered.

"God and the XO." Deanna kicked his knee lightly. "She sees right through you, that's why."

Natalia returned with a steaming cup of tea. Jean-Luc took it and thanked her, glaring at Deanna when she giggled. She could probably tell it was Earl Grey from where she sat.

"Nat, could you get me some, too? These drinks are nice, but there's nothing like a good cup of darjeeling." Telemachus watched the girl hurry inside again. "I have to tell you, Jean-Luc, I think whatever you're doing, it's worked wonders with her. The messages I get from her these days are more focused on the future than the present, and altogether more optimistic."

"What I'm doing? I haven't done a blasted thing. Whatever changes there may be should be attributed to her counselor, if anyone."

Deanna raised an eyebrow at that and said nothing.

When Natalia returned, she brought with her not only the cup of tea but an admiral. Introductions revealed that the smiling bald man was her old mentor and friend Charles Dayson, and the final attendee of the dinner party. Melissa herded them inside to the dining room, where they stood around in smaller groups while she and Natalia disappeared to the kitchen. Deanna went after them to offer help, shortly followed by Beverly.

Jean-Luc would have joined Tom and Craig or perhaps Telemachus and the admiral, but Laura headed him off before he could make it to the other end of the room. Trapped between a credenza with a vase of spring flowers on it and the corner of the long cherry-wood table, he smiled pleasantly and tried to make the best of it.

"You've done well for yourself, Johnny," she said quietly. Her canny smile reminded him uncomfortably of Vash.

"Are you still with the diplomatic department?"

"Of course. Where else would I be?" She glanced at the door, through which the hall and a glimpse of the kitchen were visible. "She's really something. Quite the looker. But knowing you, she would be, wouldn't she?"

"I'll be sure to tell her you approve."

"I didn't say that. Just that she's beautiful. Betazoid, hm? Must make it interesting."

"Do you dissect everyone's marriage this way?"

"I'm just trying to make conversation." She gazed at him intently. It reminded him of the last time he'd seen her, at a diplomatic function twenty years before, as she'd left the room on the arm of the Federation ambassador to Nardala, while said ambassador's wife still talked on obliviously with other attendees. He had passed her by on his way in and she hadn't even noticed him; she'd been gazing at the ambassador this way.

"Conversation would be a welcome change. I think I'll go make some. Excuse me."

She caught his arm. "Johnny, stop. I'm sorry. Start over? Maybe I'm just feeling a little insecure -- it's not every day I meet the old flame's wife." She had to bring it up -- and he had the distinct feeling she was trying to subtly manipulate him.

"I was of the impression I was less of a flame than a flash in the pan, and I'd think the memory might have faded over the decades. And the thought of you having an insecurity borders on the laughable."

Laura laughed at it, in her usual staccato fashion. "I was a stupid young woman. It should have been -- "

She looked up, and the sudden redirection of her gaze made him turn. Deanna leaned in the door, gestured for his attention, and he excused himself and went with her.

"I wanted to tell you, my last-minute trip to sickbay was worth being late," she murmured, pulling him into the front hall. "Priteri woke up this afternoon. She's in pain, still, but she's regretful and confessed in full her part in the accident. Took the blame entirely and wanted to know how Natalia and Batris were. She said someone gave her a spiked drink at that party -- she remembers the person laughing about it after she'd finished drinking it. I've made inquiries already to locate the guilty ensign's posting and CO."

"There's that, at least. Anything else come up? I'm almost expecting it to, now."

"All's quiet. I think we might have a chance at a day of uninterrupted leave tomorrow." She took his hand, fingering his wedding band.

"When we get home tonight, I'll give madame another of my famous back rubs. Oui?"

Smiling radiantly, she hugged him, her nose bumping his ear. "I think I'll need it. The Greenmans are letting off all kinds of tension, and there's a different kind of tension coming from your elephant -- which she is, isn't she?"

"A brief and distant one. Damned empath."

She backed off, hands on his shoulders, and laughed silently with her eyes. "You see? As distant as she was, she still finds you *very* attractive. I am the envy of all women, m'sieur. Except maybe Beverly. And Natalia, who seems to have reached a point at which she'd just love to run up and hug you in a purely daughter-to-papa fashion."

"She'd better not, that's the last thing I need."

"Grump." Running her hand along his cheek, she met him in the heart fire briefly and followed up with a brush of her lips against his. "But a handsome grump with a soft heart, so I can forgive you. Be social. I know you're tired, too. Just a few more hours."

"Yes, ma'am."

Dinner turned out to be enjoyable, the wine went over well with Telemachus especially, and the conversation remained leisurely. Tom and Beverly had brought flowers with them, yellow and white and peach roses, and Melissa had used them as centerpieces, bunching them in bowls instead of vases. She was as good a cook as Jean-Luc remembered, bringing out pasta and vegetables and perfectly-done salmon, all authentic judging from the smells that had filled the house. By the time the cobbler made it to the table, he felt almost too full to enjoy it, but persevered with the determination of a true veteran of too many official receptions. It turned out to be worth it. Natalia had been correct -- she made it the right way.

"But this still isn't going to get you that promotion," he exclaimed, gesturing across the table at Natalia with his fork.

"Oh, well, back to scrubbing decks with my toothbrush," she sighed, rolling her eyes. "Should I start on the shuttle bay? I was in there the other day, it's looking pretty scuffy."

"How's your apple pie?"

That brought an open-mouthed, delighted grin. "Never tried making one. But it's just a step removed from a cobbler, so it's worth a shot."

"The *Enterprise* has the most unique set of procedures I've ever seen." Tom's sly smile seemed to be aimed at Deanna, who sat on his left between him and Jean-Luc. "Counselors become execs, and promotions are based on culinary skill -- so what did you make for him, Deanna?"

She turned wide, mischievous eyes on Jean-Luc for a moment, biting her lip. Putting down his fork, he glared at her. "I'm never going to know what it is you're thinking unless I let you say it right now -- I know that from experience. Out with it, already."

Deanna turned to Tom. "Chocolate-covered counselor, of course."

Jean-Luc rolled his eyes. "I don't know why I even bother pretending I have any dignity left. I suppose it's no worse than some of the things Jack and Walker did to me, way back when."

"You did ask for it," Beverly said calmly from two chairs down, leaning to look behind Tom and Deanna at him.

"But you know, that's the thing about Dee that makes her such a good officer. She gives me anything I ask for."

"Not everything," she said, looking down her nose at him. "Otherwise I'd wipe that smile off your face. You're really asking for it."

"*What* smile?"

"The one that says you're not thinking about me in uniform. Officer, my eye!"

"You started it."

"Actually, sir, I think you did," Natalia said. "When you mentioned the apple pie."

"You," he growled, "are going to be the oldest ensign on the ship!"

"Good. Promotions mean reassignment a lot of the time, when you're this low on the food chain." Natalia took her empty plate, gathered Craig's and Laura's on the way by them, and left the room.

"Oh, bloody hell," Jean-Luc grumbled.

Dayson chuckled as he scraped his plate with his fork. "You realize, Captain, she's paying you an enormous compliment." He looked across the table from where he sat at Melissa's left hand, directly opposite Telemachus. "It takes a lot to put her at ease to that degree."

"I understand that," Jean-Luc replied impatiently. He glanced at Melissa, whose attention seemed to be on her plate. "Mel, wonderful job on dinner. Excellent fish."

"Thank you, Jean-Luc." She smiled pensively. "He's right, you know? I knew she liked you, but she's really doing well. I didn't see it because I was so focused on. . . what happened to her. The accident. But she even handled that better than I might have expected."

"She will be an excellent officer," Deanna said. "She's very dedicated to her career. She has been, from the start. We had her at ops as a cadet during a simulation and her performance put her ahead of the rest of the class -- it helped her win the posting on the *Enterprise.*"

Natalia breezed in. "You weren't so bad yourself, Commander," she said, taking Deanna's glass. She picked up Tom's plate and empty glass, added an empty serving dish to the pile, and left again. Deanna sighed and rolled her eyes at Jean-Luc. The sim remained a sore subject with her, even though she'd enjoyed the challenge.

The party moved outside again into the approaching dusk, the group arranging their chairs in a semi-circle looking out at the ocean. Natalia disappeared into the house for so long Deanna asked after her.

"She went down to the store on the corner for ice cream," Melissa said. "In case anyone wanted seconds on the cobbler. We ran out, and the replicator's been broken for a while -- I rarely use the thing, myself, and it just hasn't been a priority."

"Well, since the bartender's gone, I'll just help myself," Jean-Luc said. "Want something, Dee?"

He grumbled into the house a few moments later trying to remember several requests and how to make them. While at the kitchen counter assembling ingredients, he heard the front door open and close, but no one came down the hall. He left the drink-in-progress and went to look. Natalia stood wide-eyed on the mat just inside the door, wringing her hands.

"Something's wrong?"

She flinched and leaned against the door. Hands over her face, she seemed intent on keeping herself from crying. He'd seen that gesture once before, months ago, never before and never since. Not even in sickbay after the accident.

He stopped just out of arm's reach. "Natalia. Ensign. Report."

It brought her to attention -- bless that Starfleet training. Her chin wagged a few times before she managed a squeaky whisper. "Sir -- I saw him."

He could only think of one 'him' that might elicit this reaction. "Where?"

"Corner. Down the street."

"Show me."

She moved in short jerks to open the door, walked ahead of him down the path to the gate, turned left down the hill, and led him half a block along the stone wall that fronted most of the homes on that side of the street. She stopped and stiffened; he came up behind her and looked over her shoulder. Sure enough, a black man stood in the dusk near a street lamp, the bluish light from it gleaming on his shaved head. He seemed to be waiting for someone, hands in pockets and scuffing his boots on the sidewalk as he paced a few steps back and forth.

The chances of this being the same man were impossibly small. Natalia being home might have triggered this reaction to a stranger -- she'd been reminded of the trial by the thought of court-martial, now she ran into a man who probably bore a strong resemblance to her rapist. Even if it were the same man, his presence here meant he'd been rehabilitated and released. The emotional associations she had were still strong, however. She was terrified, as her ten-year-old self had been over a decade ago.

"Ensign, are you listening to me?"

"Yes, sir," came the weak answer.

"Ensign, I want you to walk down to the corner, say hello to that man, and walk on to the store for your ice cream."

She made a terrified, inarticulate, breathless squealing noise.

"I gave you an order. You'll follow it. Is that clear?"

Her head bobbed. Her feet moved. He waited, hands behind his back, watching her march stiffly forward --

Deanna's hands on his arm startled him. "Jean?"

"She thinks it's the rapist," he whispered. "I ordered her to speak to him."

Another pair of hands grabbed his other arm roughly and yanked him around. Melissa, in a rage, shoving him. "How could you?" she spat. Fortunately, her anger was such that she couldn't seem to manage any volume.

"Mel, hush. Trust me."

"You *can't* -- "

"Melissa, it's all right," Deanna murmured, putting an arm around Melissa. "Natalia will be fine. Look."

Natalia seemed to gain courage as she got closer -- she tossed her head, her short blond hair swaying, and squared her shoulders. Affecting an easy stride, she stopped within speaking range but out of arm's reach. The man turned to look at her. Spoke to her -- answering something she said. And Natalia must have spoken again, and the man smiled and shook his head.

Then Natalia rounded the corner, leaving the man to his waiting.

"Dee?"

"She's fine," Deanna said, sounding calm -- but she beamed, all over pride and intense satisfaction. Another patient had faced down demons, and won. "Better than fine."

"What are you talking about?" Melissa exclaimed sharply.

"Natalia faced him and didn't falter. She's been making great progress, but this confrontation is a clear indication of how far she's gone." Deanna put a hand on Melissa's shoulder. "She was terrified, but she did it anyway -- and now she's not frightened any more. She's elated."

"How do you know that?"

"Deanna is an empath, Mel. She can tell what you're feeling."

"You were her counselor, you said," Melissa said, shaking herself free of Deanna. "How could you condone what he's done? Of all the heartless things to do, ordering her to walk down there and talk to a man who did such a terrible -- "

"I don't think it's him." Jean-Luc watched the man cross the street -- he strode along with the impatient air of someone who'd been stood up. Whoever he'd waited for hadn't come.

"But she thought it was -- he looks exactly like him! Jean-Luc, that was the cruelest -- "

"Melissa," he snapped. Catching himself, he glanced at Deanna apologetically before she could chide him. "I'm sorry you think that, but I did it for her own good. She wants command, she has to be able to face her worst fears."

Melissa gaped and rubbed her eyes with the back of a hand, then glared as if she wanted to burn holes in him. "Command! She's my only child, my daughter -- she's determined to get herself killed the same way Ben did, and you're only encouraging her. And then you do this, in front of my own house -- bastard!" Her hand came up swiftly as if to slap him. Deanna caught her wrist -- Jean-Luc stepped backward out of reflex and watched her struggle against Deanna's grip.

"Mom?"

At the sound of Natalia's voice, Melissa wilted and Deanna let go. A carton of ice cream balanced in one hand, Natalia jogged up, her sandals slapping the sidewalk. She took in their postures and the angry tears on her mother's face, and Natalia's already-red face flushed redder.

"You weren't going to hit him, were you?"

Melissa rubbed her hands on her pants nervously and glanced from one face to the next. "Nat. . . are you all right?"

"All right? Mom -- I'm not a little kid. I'm fine, it wasn't even who I thought it was. I was just being paranoid and the captain knew it. It was just a test, that's all. A training exercise, one of those things like they did at the Academy to make you perform in the face of your own worst fears."

"You think that's all it was?" Jean-Luc asked.

Natalia's brow furrowed, and her brown eyes met his, holding his gaze. "What else could it have been?"

He took the ice cream from her and turned for the house. "You told your mother what it was, in the first few sentences. You're not a kid -- or a victim."

Deanna followed him, leaving the mother and daughter to talk, and stopped him with a tug on his arm just inside the front door as it closed. "Noodge."

"I wanted to see if she'd do it."

She grabbed the collar of his shirt and kissed him, just a brush of lips across lips. "And you're proud of her for it. She rose to the challenge. But she did it for you, Jean-Luc. I don't think she would have done it otherwise."

Laughter drifted through the house, a combination of Beverly's, Craig's and Tom's. Jean-Luc studied his wife's smiling face and remembered his talk with Tom at the chateau. "Would you have come this far without me, or have you been fighting tooth and nail just to impress me, like Natalia?"

He wasn't prepared for tears. Laughter, perhaps, or scoffing, but not the startled look of someone whose secret had been discovered. "You know I wanted to advance."

"I know all your motives, you've told me before and I know you never lied. But was it an additional motive, or perhaps even an underlying one?"

She looked at the floor and would have moved around him if he hadn't caught her arm. "The ice cream will melt."

"Come help me finish drinks, then."

It dismayed him that she didn't look at him, either on the way to the kitchen or while resuming the process of mixing the ingredients he'd left out on the counter in a glass. After putting away the ice cream, he stood beside her in front of the sink, sliding a hand across her back.

"Dee, answer the question. Please."

"Why does it matter?"

More laughter drifted in from the back yard in the silence that followed. The sunset tinged the sunlight through the kitchen window red and orange, turning the white counters pink until the lights flickered on automatically upon registering their presence and the waning light level.

"I hope you know how I feel about all you've done -- you've impressed me time and time again with the effort you put forth and all that you've accomplished. But I've always known you could do it, if you wanted to," he said.

Her curt laugh surprised him yet again. She turned away from him. "You did, I did. Our friends did, once they got over the shock of my wanting to try. And now I'm first officer of the *Enterprise,* and if I don't make a decent showing of it you'll look like a fool. Bad enough you married your counselor, you made her the exec."

She winced -- his anger had been that sudden and intense. This was an old and tired issue; they'd battled the opinions of others from the beginning. That she brought it up again, now that they'd made it through JAG scrutiny, irritated to no end. When he raised his head from his moments of mustering his composure, he found her watching him and met her in her eyes. Heat washed over both of them, her love suddenly more discernable than his fury.

"Hajira," he murmured. "I'm sorry -- you were being honest. I wanted you to be. But I didn't make you the exec, you worked hard and met my challenge -- you lived up to my standards. I didn't lower them."

"It's just like before -- we know that's true but it's not apparent to outsiders. We know we are by the book on duty, officers first and all else second. But I know who believes and disbelieves. I know some of your superiors think I will be your undoing. I have to trust that you won't let your knowing this influence your attitude or behavior -- you can't react to the knowledge that the pressure is there, and that I can feel it. It's my burden, not yours. I do want to impress you, Jean-Luc, because I know that if I do it will satisfy the disbelievers for another day, and we'll have our careers for a while longer."

"I told you, I trust you. If I had to choose between my reputation and you, it wouldn't be a choice. What others think is of far less importance than having you with me." Taking her hand, he stroked her fingers with his thumb, her rings rough -- the etched pattern on the bands, the swan and fish, barely discernable to the naked eye but real enough to the touch. "Such a protective little swan you are."

"I chose this family, I'll protect it any damn way I please."

"Even if you keep beaming up on your honeymoon?"

Deanna pulled her hand away and rinsed the blender in the sink. "You wanted a dedicated first officer, you got one. Are you saying you wanted me to neglect your ship?"

"I didn't say that. I need the rest, actually, since you keep me so busy when you *are* with me."

She wore a smug smile throughout the process of making herself a Samarian sunset, looking up when Melissa and Natalia came in. Natalia rushed ahead of her mother, coming around the end of the counter and slipping to a stop at the counter across from Deanna, her back to them. While she carved out another section of cobbler and piled it in a bowl, Deanna left quietly with her drink. The sound of the sliding door opening seemed to motivate Melissa from the pose she'd struck, leaning on the end of the counter staring at Jean-Luc, and she went after Deanna, closing the door behind her.

Natalia turned to get the ice cream and noticed they were alone. It seemed to unsettle her -- she froze with her hand in the air, short of the handle of the stasis unit. She let her arm fall to her side and shrugged uneasily.

"Mom's mad at you. I guess you know that. I'm sorry, she just doesn't get it."

"Does she at least see what you did for what it was?"

A fleeting smile. "She admitted it was proof that I'd made progress. Maybe when she's not so upset she'll see it more clearly."

"Maybe you'll even tell her how afraid you really were."

Her movements jerky and restless, she retrieved the ice cream and added some to a bowl of cobbler. Jean-Luc sipped the daiquiri Deanna had given him and noted that the semi-regular intervals of laughter from outside had ceased.

"So now you know what it's like for me, when the Borg reappear," he said quietly.

Natalia put a spoon in the bowl and stood with bowed head over it. He realized after a moment that she'd started picking at her fingernails, as she usually did when extremely nervous.

"It was like that, you know. That's what rape is -- to have control stripped from you. I suspect you've been told that control was the real issue. But whether you're in a jeffries tube or on a bridge, or being held captive, there will be times that you will lose control. It's unavoidable. You simply cannot give up and let the leftover fear and pain continue to control you after it's over."

Her shoulders moved. "I shouldn't feel guilt because of the plasma leak. I shouldn't feel afraid of black men on corners. I shouldn't feel anger at Mom because I can't change her attitude and make her. . . proud of me."

"You can feel what you feel, and you should. But it isn't appropriate to allow it to interfere with what must be done -- whether that's your duty to Starfleet, or to your mother. My father didn't approve of Starfleet either, and I let him die without reaching some sort of consensus with him. You don't have to let that happen."

"How am I supposed to find consensus when all she wants is for me to come home?" Tears were flowing, discernable only because of the wobble in her voice. She wouldn't look at him.

"Make a way. Give what you can, while you can. It takes time, but you have that, fortunately. And cut it out -- if that's my cobbler, I don't want it salty. You cry in it, you eat it."

She sniffed and glanced at him finally. "I wish I could be like you."

"In fifty years or so, you might be. Except you'll probably be a lot prettier and less inclined to lose all your hair."

She got another bowl out of a cabinet and scooped more cobbler into it, stifling a giggle. When she'd added ice cream and a spoon, she brought it to him. He scowled at her when she didn't move away again. "You aren't going to kiss me again, are you?"

It took her too far aback. "No, sir, I'm sorry, that was too forward of me -- I shouldn't have done it, I got carried away."

"Your father would be proud of you. Following orders in spite of feeling stark terror."

Natalia backed a step, biting her thumbnail and looking for a place to rest her gaze.

"I'm proud of you."

"Thank you. . . sir," she whispered, unable to stifle the smile.

"Except you're behaving poorly at the moment."

It brought her to attention, her chin coming up, though her eyes rested on a spot in the air over his head. "Thank you, sir."

"Do you think I ask too much of you?"

"No, sir."

He took another bite of cobbler -- it really was very good, and the ice cream complemented it well. {Dee, I noticed performance reviews on your padd yesterday. Was Natalia's among them, by any chance?}

{No. Her last one was two weeks ago. She's done very well, controlled in red alert situations, keeps her head under pressure, volunteers for extra duty, and Geordi said she doesn't seem to have trouble talking to him any more. She pushed Batris into reporting a dereliction of duty on the part of some other ensigns several months ago. You're not thinking of expressing favoritism, are you?}

Catching himself short of an angry outburst, he glanced at Natalia. "At ease, Ensign. I'm sorry, I shouldn't put you at attention in your own kitchen. You should finish your cobbler before your ice cream melts."

She turned to get her bowl, smiling again as she relaxed.

{I'm asking my first officer for an assessment of her performance, inclusive of her behavior over the past week.}

"May I ask a question, sir?" Natalia's voice overlaid his silent request.

"Ask." The sliding door opened. Deanna came through the living room to the kitchen, set her empty glass in the sink, and smiled at Natalia in passing as she went about getting herself another bowl of cobbler. And another -- she must be taking requests from the others. Which reminded him that he and Natalia were being reclusive.

"What would you have done if it'd been you in the jeffries tube?"

He scratched his nose with his thumbnail and put the spoon to work again, dipping another bite of cobbler in the ice cream melting down the side of the bowl. "An unfair question. You are about to compare yourself to me. Compare yourself to no one but yourself, Natalia."

Deanna's scooping of ice cream slowed as he spoke, until finally she turned and looked at the back of Natalia's head. "Could you take this out to Telemachus, Natalia?"

She went without hesitation, hurrying as if she'd been ordered to do it. Deanna leaned against the counter with crossed arms, facing him across the kitchen, and shook her head at him. "You want my assessment? This morning when I interviewed Batris, he said he wouldn't have been able to go back for Priteri, but that he's been in some of the sims with Natalia and some of the others in the holodeck. He isn't command track, but he's realized that he will need some command training if he's to ever be a chief engineer, and he credits Natalia's influence in helping him toward that end. Given her service record as I remember it and Batris' feedback on how she's helped her fellow officers off duty, I'd recommend her for promotion next review, if the trend continues. She's about to rotate into security."

"What about her behavior today?"

Deanna sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. Eyes closed, she considered while Telemachus' raspy, throbbing laughter came faintly from outside. "It wasn't an away mission, Captain. It wasn't in the line of duty. You crossed a line you never crossed with me, issuing orders in personal matters. I'm proud of her for rising to the occasion, but I'm afraid I have to take issue with your asking it of her."

As she said it, she looked him in the eye, cool as an officer, and he realized she was right -- he'd overstepped. Not for her, but for an ensign.

"Have I really been so blind?" he murmured.

The patio door slid back, letting in loud exclamations from Craig, and shut again. Natalia trotted into the kitchen but froze upon seeing them staring at each other. "Dr. Crusher wanted some. . . ."

Deanna looked at her. "It's all right, Natalia. Here, I'll do it." She dished another helping of cobbler and left the house.

Natalia approached slowly at his come-over gesture. "Is something wrong? Something I've done."

"No, Natalia, nothing you've done. I owe you an apology. You would be within your rights to file a grievance -- "

"I knew it wasn't an official order. I wasn't wearing boots, either."

He'd been looking at her, but the way she met his gaze without fear, with honest affection and even a little reassurance --

"Sir?"

He put the bowl on the counter, turning away from her, unable to stand the reminder.

"Is everything all right? Should I get the doctor?"

"I'm fine."

An awkward pause ensued. Hands on the edge of the sink, he searched for what to do next and found himself at a loss.

"I feel like I ought to apologize for something," she ventured at last. "I really don't know what."

"It isn't your fault. You remind me of my daughter, that's all."

Another pause. "I. . . didn't know you had a daughter."

"She's. . . been gone, for years. I suppose that's why I've let myself become so concerned for your welfare, why it's been so difficult from the first -- don't fault your mother for worrying, Natalia. It's what a parent does. Even the loss of a lover hurts less than the loss of a child. Children are part of you, in a way that defies rational explanation, and it makes you die inside to see them suffer, or -- "

He held his breath, counted seconds, and exhaled slowly, quietly, until he'd found balance and felt able to face her again. Only rather than do that and risk coming apart, he turned his head until he could see her out of the corner of his eye. "Deanna's concern for you led her to ask you along to the chateau only after it became obvious that I wanted to help you and didn't know how. It isn't my intention to single you out or in any way compromise your professionalism, or mine."

Her stillness worried him for long silent moments, until her words shocked him. Quite calmly, she said, "I'm flattered, I guess, and honored that I remind you of your daughter. But I don't want to cause trouble. . . if I remind you of her that much, maybe I should stop -- I can go to the gym different times of the day, and make sure I don't end up on -- "

"Actually," he began, realized it came out too loudly, and paused. Turning around, he shook his head and smiled, glancing at her long enough to make sure she wasn't about to burst into tears or leap up and kiss him. "Actually, I'd like to hear more about your father. I have the feeling I'd have liked him. And if you'd like to use it, I do have a holodeck program for horseback riding."

Natalia's jaw dropped. She picked it up again a moment later, a few tears escaping, and tilted her head as she smiled. "Do you give lessons? It's been a long time."

He sighed. "You thought at some point that the idea of my being your friend was unbelievable. Are you changing your mind?"

"I can't see you as a friend on the same basis as Batris or the other ensigns. I could think of you the same way I do Admiral Dayson, or Uncle Telly. But I don't know if you're comfortable with that."

"I haven't been, have I?" Jean-Luc picked up the bowl again. "To this point contact between us has been negligible. A few moments of conversation every once in a while, except for that day Lwaxana turned your life upside down for a few hours. But you know, adjusting to being tame doesn't come easily to me."

She giggled at the reference. "You keep scowling at me -- but that's usually a bluff, to hide behind. I think. Sometimes I'm not so sure."

"I think you are."

The sliding door opened, and Craig and Laura stumbled inside, laughing. "See you round, Jean-Luc," Craig exclaimed. "Bye, Nat -- take it easy on the male population of the *Enterprise,* sweetheart."

"Bye, Uncle Belly," Natalia called, waving. The two vanished down the hall without looking back, and the front door opened and closed. Natalia looked at Jean-Luc again with a shrug. "That was predictable."

"I'll say."

She hesitated, then made an uncertain noise. "Do you know Laura very well?"

"Let's just say some things don't change over time. Uncle Belly?"

"It used to bug him. He got used to it. Don't worry, I wouldn't call you anything silly."

"Otherwise you'd never get the promotion."

Another awkward pause. She shifted restlessly. "I'm sorry."

"What on earth for?" Jean-Luc put his empty bowl in the sink and wondered what time it was -- his eyes were starting to ache a bit, as if he'd kept them open for two days straight.

"I'm not sure. I just feel like there's something I need to say, or something, and I don't know how to figure out what. I'm really that much like. . . her?"

"Your hair and eyes are nearly the same. Especially the eyes. You have the same manner, almost. I don't feel up to discussing her at the moment -- perhaps some other time I'll tell you about her. It only seems fair, since. . . . We've been hiding out in here long enough, don't you think?"

"You're right." She took a step toward the living room, made an abortive movement toward him, took another step, and halted again.

Jean-Luc took the initiative. When his arm went around her in a tentative one-armed hug, she threw her arms around him and nearly cracked his ribs -- he'd been right, she really did want to hug him. Her head bumped his chin. Silky hair brushed along his jaw. A long ragged breath, and she pulled away.

"That's what I needed to say," she murmured.

"It's what needed to be said, then." He dared to look her in the eye at last. Still, she feared. Even now. He let himself grip her shoulder gently, and shook her arm. "Whatever serendipitous turn of fate brought it about, you are a matter of consequence to me. All right?"

Quoting the Little Prince made her smile. She nodded, biting her upper lip and hugging herself. "I'll shake in my boots on duty, regardless. Sir. And buy a gross of toothbrushes."

In the moment they stood looking at each other, both trying to regain composure, the patio door opened. Deanna and Melissa came inside. "What is going on in here?" Melissa asked.

"Sorry, Mom, I was just. . . being scolded, for not following the rules in the handbook."

"What handbook?" Deanna asked. Her intense curiosity had a reason -- she'd heard Natalia refer to the fictional handbook before. Apparently the ensign hadn't shared the joke with her counselor and friend. Jean-Luc almost smiled. Natalia could keep things to herself, all right.

"We were about to come out," Natalia continued. "Does anyone need anything? I can get -- "

"Just a minute, Nat. I've been talking to Deanna for a little while, since everyone else is talking ships and specs. She said I need to ask you why you want to be in Starfleet." From her tone, she didn't think it would help, but she'd been worn down to it by Deanna's patient noodging.

Deanna stayed behind Melissa and fixed her knowing, reproachful eyes on Natalia, crossing her arms into the bargain. The look of the counselor on the warpath -- own up, or else. Natalia glanced wildly at him as if crying out for help, or considering using him as a shield. Jean-Luc crossed his arms and added a cool gaze of his own to back up Deanna.

"Consensus," he said, then left her there in the kitchen, going around Melissa and heading for the patio door. Deanna fell in behind him. As they stepped out and she closed the door after them, he felt her hand slide down and squeeze gently. He turned with raised eyebrow and stared at her too-innocent, big-eyed expression.

{You curl my toes, Jean-Fish. I couldn't resist.}

"Something wrong?" Beverly called. She'd turned in her chair to look at them. Dayson and Finch were also glancing back; Tom was shaking his head slowly, smirking, making Jean-Luc wonder if he'd seen the goosing.

"Dee was just saying her feet hurt," Jean-Luc said, heading for the nearest empty chair. Deanna, her silent laughter tickling him, settled on the edge of the deck instead of getting a chair and leaned against his shins.

{What handbook, Jean?}

He shifted his foot beneath her posterior. {Natalia made it up. She refers to it mostly when she makes mistakes or gets uncomfortable. One of her ongoing jokes -- she claimed that if she hadn't lost the handbook she might've known what I looked like and not approached me in the gym.}

{Then I suppose it's a good thing she lost it. You've been very good for each other.}

The onshore breeze felt clean and cool. Along the horizon, the remnants of sunset faded, and twilight deepened. Tom and Beverly seemed happy to sit in silence; Dayson and Finch were talking about an admiral they both knew when the door opened again.

"Anyone want anything?" Natalia's voice brought Jean-Luc up with a jerk -- he'd let his eyes drift shut, he realized. He half-turned and stopped when Natalia's hand touched his arm. Then he looked up, into her red-rimmed eyes, and her smile. Her expression said everything was fine, thank you.

"Actually, I think we'll be going," Deanna said. She sounded as tired as Jean-Luc felt. "It's been a long day."

They said their farewells, passing Melissa on the way out, not wanting to disturb her -- she stood in the kitchen, head bowed, until they'd almost reached the front door. "Wait," she called, hurrying down the short hall. Her eyes were also red-rimmed from crying, but she wasn't smiling.

{It's only a start for her, Jean. It'll take time.}

Melissa caught his hand. "Thank you. Thank you, for being there when she needed someone. If she has to go out there. . . I feel better knowing she's with someone who actually cares about her welfare."

"You're welcome, and it was really no trouble. It's good to see you again, Melissa. Thank you for inviting us. We'll have to reciprocate when we're Earthside again. And. . . if you ever have any concerns, feel free to send a communique. Madame makes sure our correspondence is answered promptly."

She smiled wanly and nodded, and saw them out. He hesitated on the walk and looked up at the sky, from which dusk had retreated and left the black blanket of night flecked with stars.

And remembered -- a surprising, long-buried memory, surfacing after long years of being drowned out by less pleasant ones. His father, pointing into the night sky. Standing in the vineyard with the breeze in the leaves, and the smell of irrigated earth, and faintly Maman's singing -- Au Clair de la Lune, drifting down from the house. Papa swung him up on his shoulder and strode up the rows, laughing, singing back at her.

"Jean," Deanna whispered, calling him back to her.

"You asked me for the first thing I remembered about Papa." He pointed at the sky. "He showed me the stars, when I was five. He showed me Orion's Belt, and Cassiopeia, and the North Star."

When he turned to her again, in the dim porch light's glow he saw the stars in her eyes as well. Tears gathered on her lashes. She smiled, nodding once. "In the light of the moon. I heard the echo of the song in your thoughts, which for some reason are clearer than usual. You know. . . I'm not so tired as I was a bit ago. Let's go home and go for a walk, and you can teach me the constellations."

As he guided her through the gate and swung it shut behind them, she took his hand. Something in her manner made him hesitate. She kissed him lightly and whispered, "Yves."

It took a moment to understand she'd returned to their word association exercise. He smiled, and gave the right answer, the first thing that had popped into his mind.

"Mon fils."

"Father."

"Yes."

Deanna rested her nose against his jaw. "Natalia."

"Boots."

"Something tells me the effectiveness of this exercise is waning fast," she murmured. "Let's go home, clown fish."

~^~^~^~^~^~

Tom found his quarters -- their quarters -- completely dark. He stopped, waiting for his eyes to adjust as the doors closed and his eyes adjusted to starlight through the viewports.

She stood hugging herself, already in a robe with her hair brushed out, staring out one of the ports. Something in her posture told him clouds filled her eyes again.

"Got rid of them at last. The commissioning was nothing -- it's the aftermath that's the headache," he said, as if nothing were wrong, in spite of the growing concern that there was. Pips off, jacket off, tossed on the desk -- course laid in. Slow measured steps at an oblique angle, swerving at the last moment to face her.

He laid a finger along her pale cheek. She didn't look at him with regret or anger -- that much established, he stroked her arm and came closer still.

"Beverly?"

Her gaze went to the floor. "I'm sorry."

Her penitence might've been a torpedo. No -- a torpedo would hurt less. Still, no assumptions should be made. "Sorry."

"I love you," she whispered apologetically.

Hell, this sounded bad. He couldn't look at her any longer, he'd start screaming. Fastening his eyes on an arbitrary point in the air over the table, he waited, helpless.

"That wasn't -- I'm not sorry I love you, Geraint, I'm sorry I -- that I can't seem to shake it, that I've been so distracted. I'm sorry I kept drifting away from you. I can't help thinking that -- maybe I'm not being fair to you. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea, and I'll just end up hurting you -- "

He translated frustration into motion. His hands wanted to do something, anything -- they wanted tangible enemies to tackle instead of this invisible menace strangling him. Pacing around the table, he heard her sob.

What could he say now? Nothing. Damned to hell no matter what. Falling on his knees and begging would be weak, grabbing her and kissing her would be assault --

"Geraint," she cried.

She'd already started it -- he'd heard that speech before, not in the same words but always the same sentiment, 'it's not you, it's me,' and never before had it been so difficult to take.

He couldn't stand the final blow. Couldn't take it. Not again, not from her, never from --

The corridor -- how had he gotten out here? He stopped and realized he'd been walking, no wonder she'd called his name. Dumbfounded, he stared back at the door.

"Tom?"

"Jean-Luc." Amazing how easily the name fell off his lips. He turned to the other captain. Picard had left earlier, along with his senior officers, before the reception had dwindled to a staggering halt and the last admiral had taken leave of it. Why was he back -- ah. He held up a bottle of wine.

"I kept meaning to give this to you, and I kept forgetting it. Tom, what's got into you? You look like someone just punched you in the stomach."

Tom took the bottle and looked at the label. "Thanks."

"Captain Glendenning to the conn -- you seem to be adrift."

"Sorry. It's -- I can't do it, I can't let her -- "

"Oh for God's sake, Tom, either finish the damned sentence or go back in there and tell her. In fact -- just go back in there. Leave me out of it."

Tom stared at him. "Thought you were human, not Betazoid."

"I don't even have to know what you were going to say. You stand out here, the whole crew will be up here taking pictures of the captain with his heart hanging out. Get back in there already."

"Who do you think you are, giving me orders?"

"That's better." Picard smirked. "She driven you crazy yet?"

"Completely insane, thank you."

"Why do you think I ended up with a psychologist? At least Beverly didn't wear a duranium chastity belt for *you.*"

"Shit," Tom blurted, pacing away from him. "Shit! You people from the *Enterprise* are all *freaks*! You and your weird liaisons, and anti-relationships, and I've been sucked into the middle of it!"

He whirled around, and found Picard standing with crossed arms. Apparently this was all in his day's routine. The puckish grin faded. "Now that you don't look gutshot, think about it. Did she leave, or not? If not, what the hell are you out here for? Try the wine, it's quite good. And try the simple truth -- it works wonders. If you'll excuse me, I have a ship waiting for me."

Tom stared at his retreating back until Picard entered the lift. Holding the wine in both hands like a shield, he marched into his quarters again.

Beverly sat up like a shot -- she'd ended up prone on the couch -- and gaped at him.

"Lights up half, computer," he called, crossing the room to put the bottle on the table. "Want some wine? Courtesy of Jean-Luc -- he just dropped it off."

"No. . . I thought you were. . . Tom?"

"Yes, that's me, Tom. I'm sorry I ran out like that. I'm not good at conversations that start with whispered apologies, they sound like preludes to a packed suitcase and a long string of drunken attempts at getting it out of my system."

She came off the couch and flew at him, barely reaching him before the sob shook her. He caught her, barely, and let her choke him for a moment. Catching her second wind, she gulped and leaned on him.

"That wasn't what I was trying to say. I was going at it all backward. You just gave me the most fantastic four days of leave -- I loved Paris, and the family visit turned out fine, and then the time in Monterey was so perfect. . . . I just -- feel terrible, for being so melancholy, and for reacting so poorly when you gave me the earrings, and behaving badly whenever you tell me how much you care about me -- I'm not used to it yet. Not used to this, to just diving in for the long term like we did. From that very first time you said you loved me, you've acted like this, and I just need. . . time. And now we're together on the same ship, in the same quarters, and I'm so happy -- but I keep thinking something's going to happen to mess it up. I can't help myself. There have been so many times that -- "

"Is that all this is? Damn it, Beverly! You scare me like that again and -- "

It was almost enough to send him racing out of the room again. She stood away from him and touched his cheek in amazement, her fingers cool, and to his dismay she began wiping his face with the cuff of her sleeve. He backed off, turning away, flinging an arm up as if shooing insects.

"Stop doing that! Shit!"

"You're crying," she exclaimed. "Tom, I've never seen you cry before!"

"I'm *not* crying. Women," he growled. His graceful turn on his way to an impressive stalk around the room was foiled by a chair he failed to account for. Stumbling, he caught himself and swore in Romulan at the pain in his shin.

"Geraint," she called lightly. He turned around slowly, and found her eyes cloudless and bright as the summer sky. She held out a hand. "Come here, please?"

His feet obeyed her, luckily, because he felt too witless to tell them what to do. His hand seemed to know what was required of it as well. Her fingers accepted his graciously.

"Verly wants a kiss," she whispered. He complied, of course -- resistance would be downright stupid. And when she'd had a leisurely trip around the inside of his mouth, she tipped her head back and smiled again.

"Verly wants a lot more than a kiss. She wants it *now.*"

Grinning, Tom swung her up into his arms, making her gasp, and headed for the bedroom. "I told you, anything you want, just ask. It's about time you paid attention."

#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#

_A short glossary of French terms:_

__

_ma douleur, mon amour -- my suffering, my love_

_Mon fils -- my son_

_Belle cygne -- beautiful swan_

_Belle dame de la lune -- beautiful lady of the moon_

__

_The verse from Clair de la Lune:_

__

_Au clair de la lune,  
L'aimable Arlequin  
Frappa chez la brune,  
Qui répond soudain:  
Qui frap' de la sorte?  
Il dit à son tour:  
Ouvrez votre porte,  
Pour le dieu d'amour._

__

_In English:_

__

_By the light of the moon,  
The lovable Harlequin  
Knocked at the neighbor's house, ( the brown-hair's house)  
Who suddenly responds:  
Who knocks this way?  
He says in return: (in his turn)  
Open your door,  
For the God of love. _


End file.
